


Insane Mistakes Everybody Makes

by Fluencca



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (Ish) - Freeform, Avengers Dad Squad, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Irondad, Kidnapping, Light Angst, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Peter Parker Whump, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21971923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fluencca/pseuds/Fluencca
Summary: The Avengers' kids are kidnapped for leverage and ransom. Tony tries to find them, while Peter--who somehow is part of this mess--tries to keep the kids safe.[Rated T mostly for language]
Relationships: Clint Barton & Tony Stark, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Natasha Romanov, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 251
Kudos: 965
Collections: Download fics, Fics that make my heart go OOF with fluff





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place between Homecoming and Infinity War, and is more-or-less canon compliant.  
> The work is complete, and I'll post-as-I-edit.

For all that he tried to always be prepared, this crisis hit Tony like a baseball to the side of the heat—at a board meeting; he wasn’t expecting it, in fact he felt like he _couldn’t have_ expected it. He was on his way out of town, a legal trip, this time, a visit to Pepper’s cousins in the country. It was supposed to be an irritating, slightly cheesy day of travel and avoiding cheek kisses, not— not this. 

He was already in the car when the call came in, and he had to pull the blue shades off to make sure he was reading the caller ID correctly. He hadn’t spoken to Clint since that night on the raft, and he was perfectly comfortable to resume speaking to him never. He considered letting it ring out, but in the end he rolled his eyes, sighed, and took the call. He pulled out of the driveway and headed north. The airfield would hold the jet as long as he needed, but he didn’t want to speak to Clint while totally unpreoccupied. He needed the distraction in case the conversation turned ugly. 

“Please tell me you’re on this, that you have something, some lead.” Clint wasn’t belligerent, or angry, or accusatory. Something was off. Instinctively, he took in all the mirrors in quick succession, but nothing seemed out of order. He touched his hand to the housing unit in his chest. Nothing was wrong, and aside from Clint being a mysteriously vague not-quite-a-dick, he had no reason to assume there was.

“Okay, hello to you, too, Clint,” Tony said, zipping across lanes. The sun was low, shining the interior of the car a glowing orange with its final rays. It was a nice evening, and he saw no reason to let Clint ruin it for him. “Yes, we are having a lovely autumn. No, I’m looking forward to the end of daylight time. And how are things by you? Still sore about Germany, I take it? It’s time to let that go.”

“How can you be _fucking with me_ right now?” Clint snapped. Apparently, he wasn’t thinking about Germany. “The cat’s out of the bag, and I’m sorry it happened like this but I need you, man. Do you have something? Anything? Christ, my _kids_ , Tony, my—” Barton’s voice broke, then, but Tony was already calling up Friday. Barton was hardly on a first name basis with him, and for Clint to call him that…

“Clint, I don’t know anything. Literally, anything about whatever it is you’re talking about. So slow it down, back it up, rewind the tape. I need some context.”

Clint said nothing for a moment. Only his heavy, deliberate breathing carried over the line. “How—”

“Yeah, I’ll call you back.” Tony disconnected the call. He was getting nowhere with Barton, and he had no desire to play another three rounds of _how can you._ Instead, he did what he should have done the moment he saw who was calling.

“Friday, find out what’s happening with Barton. And why he thinks I should know about it.”

“Sure thing, boss. Accessing US Marshals database.”

Tony was wondering if he’d have time to call Clint before he had to get on the plane, but Friday interrupted the thought before it was fully formed. She already had results.

“Boss, you’re gonna want to see this,” she said, quiet urgency underscoring her words. “Allow me,” she added, and smoothly took over control of the car. Both hands free, Tony reached over and activated the console on the dashboard.

“There was an attack on the Barton Farm earlier this morning,” Friday said, and pulled up several photos for Tony to swipe through. The Barton homestead looked like it had been hit by an IED. Everywhere was debris, splinters, and ruin. The bedrooms were in better shape, but somehow looked worse. Mattresses were overturned, closets ripped apart, and the master bedroom was sprinkled with blood.

“What’s the damage?” Tony asked in a level voice. Clint had mentioned something about his kids, and the thought that they had been slaughtered in their beds caused darkness to fill his chest.

“The children were in bed when a Willowsting grenade was thrown into the main living area. Laura Barton is hospitalized with a concussion and broken bones. Clint Barton is reported to be ‘largely unharmed’ in the incident report. He managed to kill two of the assailants, but since the terms of his house arrest disallow him any weapons on the premises, the remaining assailants were able to abduct his two eldest children.”

Tony shut his eyes against the darkness uncoiling inside him. “Christ,” he muttered, and rubbed a hand down his face. No wonder Clint was beside himself. Those bastards almost killed his wife and took his children.

“What else?” Because there was more. There was more to explain that phone call.

“Boss, about an hour ago Agent Barton received an email from the kidnappers. You received one, as well.”

Friday pulled up his Stark Industries inbox. The one he never checked because it was available online and filled with junk. For a while he’d had Jarvis scan it periodically for anything important, but after a decade of nothing but solicitation, he decided it wasn’t worth even Jarvis’ bandwidth to keep monitoring it. With Friday, he hadn’t bothered at all.

He should have.

Because it had been an hour since the email came in. It was already bumped by spam, _Your DA needs your support! Moms won’t stop raving about these 3 amazing life-hacks! Need help filing those taxes?,_ but Tony had no doubt which email Friday was referring to.

**It’s 4 p.m. Do you know where your children are?**

The flippancy was infuriating. Tony could only imagine knowing you had a missing child, and the receiving a taunt like that. There had never really been a question, but he would help Clint find those assholes. He’d make them pay. He asked Friday to find a place to turn the car around.

Then he pulled up the email. It was fairly straightforward.

_We have your children. Release prisoner 348 from the Raft with a self-piloting jet. No trackers. Prepare 150 million dollars for transfer to the account listed below. In 3 hours your kids will begin paying the price for any delays._

God. Tony didn’t know who prisoner 348 was, not off the cuff, but it didn’t really matter. He was certain that if they were in the Raft they belonged there. Rogue Avengers notwithstanding, there was very strict criterion for who was sent there. It involved both potential and willingness to commit mass murder a second time. There was no chance the government would agree to release someone who’s proven to be adept at slaughter, and certainly not to let them disappear with an obscene amount of cash at their disposal. Tony thought that Clint must know this, but he still didn’t want to have to be the one to remind him. The email had been sent hours after the kids were taken, and they could be anywhere in the country. Hell, if they had access to a high-speed aircraft, they could be anywhere in the _world_ , and Tony had only two hours to find them. Fuck.

“Friday, what’s that link at the bottom? Is it safe?”

“Yes, boss. I ran it through the sandbox, no threat detected. It’s an unencoded jpeg. Origin untraceable.”

Tony followed the link. It was, as Friday said, a photo. Proof of life, he supposed. He should have been relieved on Clint’s behalf, but suddenly Tony couldn’t breathe. His vision tunneled; his heart pounded in his ears. This couldn’t be happening. It made sense, it made appalling, hideous sense, but it couldn’t, _shouldn’t,_ be happening.

There were three kids in that photo. Clint’s two eldest, their eyes red eyes and frightened, tear-stained faces looking up at the camera. Lying supine beside them, his face covered in blood, oh, God, it was—

Two hours.

Tony grabbed the wheel, overriding Friday’s control. He swerved the car over the grass divide of the highway at a speed even he knew was outrageous, and headed back toward the compound.

“Friday, update Pepper.” He took a deep breath, allowed himself to tremble once, then stiffened. The kid needed him. “Find out everything there is about Prisoner 348. And get Clint back on the line.”

Two hours.

~*~

Peter had known almost immediately that something was wrong. It was unusual to be called to the office so soon after the second bell, and his danger-sense was thrumming along all the way to the principal’s office; as soon as he stepped inside it flared up like live sparks running up and down his arms. The two men opposite the principal were dressed like cops. They told him that there had been an accident, and that Peter was to come with them. They’d explain it all on the way.

“Is it May?” Peter’s voice trembled, and he hated how vulnerable he sounded. But he needed to know if she was in genuine danger. He could handle these guys, he was sure. If May’s safety was on the line…

“Oh, no. They assured me your aunt is fine, it’s rather more distant family, but they really can’t say any more, since I’m not family,” Mr. Morita said.

“Oh, okay, sure,” Peter replied, nodding with relief. Except he didn’t _have_ any family outside of May. But Principal Morita didn’t seem to notice how both men casually but very deliberately moved their hands to rest on their weapons when Peter asked his question, so Peter decided that this wasn’t the place to raise his misgivings. Better to get these trigger-happy obviously-not-police away from the school, first.

“Um, I’ll just head back to AP History and get my backpack?” Peter asked. His suit and his phone were in his bag, and if he could get to them—

The officers both shook their head.

“That’s alright, Mr. Parker. I’ll have one of your friends collect your bag. You can go on with the officers, now.”

Peter sighed. “Uh, okay.” The officer closest to him placed a hand on his neck. The gesture was probably meant to seem warm, but his fingers wrapped around the base of Peter’s neck uncomfortably tightly.

“Let’s go, son. We’ll explain everything in the car.”

Peter shook off the hand. He hated being called that. Even Ben never did that.

They left the school, the officers keeping Peter ahead of them. They were driving a police car, and Peter wondered for a moment if they were super well-funded, or whether they were actual cops who happened to be dirty. Either way, he wasn’t getting into a car with them. They were lying about the emergency, and if there was time to wait in the office with Mr. Morita, there was time to grab his backpack. He could probably break out of the car if he really needed to, but that would mean revealing he was far stronger than he should be. No need to volunteer that information.

About ten feet from the car Peter saw his chance. He shoved the officer to his right, hard, and ran for the alley. He didn’t need to go far. As soon as he was within the alley and hidden from view, he leapt up the wall. Within seconds he was on the roof of the adjacent building, trying to control his breathing. He peeked carefully over the edge, but he needn’t have bothered with stealth; the two men were crushing their way through the alley, looking inside the dumpster and behind the garbage cans, but never thinking to look up. The taller man kicked the dumpster, then cursed.

“And where the hell is he? He couldn’t have gone far, and this is a goddamned dead end!” He kicked the dumpster again. “Fuck this. We need to get out of here before he calls the real cops.”

“In Queens?” His shorter partner snorted. “Yeah. Assuming he called them from the phone he keeps lodged up his ass, it’ll take them a good twenty minutes to show up. He’s hiding here somewhere, we’ll find him.”

Yeah, Peter didn’t think so. He was essentially home free. The rooftops stretched behind him, so close he could practically step from one to the next, no powers needed. Just as soon as they leave the alley, he’d head back to school and call Happy about this, and be back in classes before the end of second period. Is this what being responsible felt like? It was pretty easy.

Below him, the men were still arguing. “Listen, Jeff, I said no,” Shorter dude argued back. “We already got the younger kids, they’re already at the location, no one is ever going to find them. We are not just going to abandon the plan and hand them back to their parents. Amos and Beecher _died_ for this. We can’t just let Stark’s kid go.”

Whoa. Peter ducked below the ledge of the roof. He could still hear the men, but he needed to close his eyes. There was way too much happening just now. These guys took other, younger kids? That was massively uncool. He wondered if he’d be able to get to a phone and then trail these guys back to where they keeping those other kids. He couldn’t use the payphones on this block, or he’d be seen. The next ones were three blocks over. Peter kept weighing his options as he crept along the length of the alley now, to keep up with the conversation of Jeff and Shorty. They were now opening garbage cans, looking inside them.

“Are you sure we need him, anyway?” Jeff asked again. “We got one Avenger’s kids, that’s probably enough.”

“Probably, yeah. But Tony Stark’s the one with the money, and he’s gonna need a lot more on the line if we want him to cooperate.”

The looked around the alley helplessly again.

Peter was near the dead end of the alley now, the next building spitting distance from him. It was tempting to just leave, call in some grownups, and make this someone else’s problem… Except for whoever those other kids were. They said they were little, and that there was no way to find them. If that was true, Peter was their best chance of getting out of there, hopefully before any serious damage was done. He didn’t miss the implication that he was Mr. Stark’s kid, rather than Spider-Man. The thought was weird and flattering and a little embarrassing. He didn’t _want_ to be anyone else’s kid, he had a dad, even if he was gone. But if he was to be mistaken for someone’s son—well, it was flattering, is all.

But it still left the question of what to do.

No, not really. He’d have liked to have his phone with him, hell, his suit would have been even better, but he’d make do without. He could make do without his guy in the chair. These guys didn’t know he was Spider-Man, after all. All he’d need is one good sucker punch and he could get away, if he needed to.

“Maybe we should go wait for him at the school. He’s sure to head back there for his shit.”

Shorty nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Good thinking. We’d better hurry, though. We gotta make time after this.”

As soon as they turned toward the mouth of the alley, Peter dropped silently to the pavement behind them. He moved half way behind the dumpster Shorty and Jeff had already rooted through, and cleared his throat.

They continued walking, chatting quietly.

Peter rattled the dumpster once, as though it moved accidentally when he tried to move deeper behind it. Shorty tilted his head, but then only mumbled, “Goddamned rats. I hate the City.”

Oh, for crying out loud. These guys were making it _really_ hard to get accidentally caught by them.

Peter moved out from behind the dumpster, then kicked it hard enough to dent it. The top slammed shut and finally, _finally_ , the two morons turned around. Peter widened his eyes, hoping he looked more startled than relieved. The two men moved in on him, their guns drawn.

“Hey, guys. Any chance we can talk this out?” Peter said, and backed up until he hit the wall behind him.

The men advanced until they were within striking distance.

Peter could feel the pistol whip coming before Shorty’s arm even began to swing back.

_Don’t move, don’t move, don’t move don’tmovedon’t—_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker is resistant to more than a spoonful of angst at a time. I swear I tried, but he forcibly lightens the mood whenever I try to over-angst him. I should add the "little shit" tag, on a meta level. 
> 
> As always, comments, suggestions, corrections, and comments are always welcome!


	2. Chapter Two

By the time he was back at the Compound, Tony had Friday using half the broadband on the east-coast trying to trace or place that image, an Assistant Director of the FBI en route to the raft to interrogate 348, and a quinjet on its way to collect Clint in Iowa, despite his objections.

“They’re not going to let me come, Tony. I’m still under house arrest. They fucking cuffed me to the bed when I was passed out at the hospital, they’re not going to let me leave the state. ‘Let the cops handle it,’ that’s what they’re telling me.” His voice was raised by the end, and Tony was fairly sure he had punched a wall.

“I’ll deal with Ross. I’ll deal with whoever the hell I need to, but right now I need more bodies I trust on this, and that’s you.”

“Is there anyone else who can help us? Rhodey, Vision?”

Tony hated having to explain this out loud. He didn’t like to dwell on this even on good days. “Rhodey is in physical therapy in Washington State. Vision is… Well, I’m pretty sure he’s on a date somewhere in the UK, but I’m not supposed to know that. And that’s it. Anyone else I’d trust with this is in the wind, as you know.”

A silence followed, and Tony thought that perhaps Clint had taken his confession as an accusation. When he spoke, Tony realized that he’d just been deciding to tip his hand.

“Do you trust Nat?”

“With this? Yeah, I’d trust her with the kid’s life.”

“I happen to know she’s stateside. I’ll call her. She’ll meet you at the Compound. She can be there soon.”

Tony decided not to ask how he knew that, or what she was doing in the country. He _was_ still accountable to the State Department.

“I’ll see you both there, then.” A moment passed, neither of them spoke. “Clint, we’ll find them. We’ll get them back. We—we gotta. So we will.”

Clint exhaled heavily. “I, uh, yeah. Yeah. I can’t allow myself to think differently right now. And Tony, I’m sorry we’re finding out like this. I mean, I get it, I get hiding him, probably more than anyone. But I wish I could have met your kid, you know, _before_.”

There was nothing to know, at least not in the way Barton had meant. It hurt more than it should have. “He’s actually not my kid,” he said, quickly. He didn’t want Clint to think that _he_ thought their situations were comparable. He knew they weren’t. “They made a mistake, and they’ll make another. We’ll find them. I’ll see you soon.”

He disconnected the call without waiting for Clint to answer. Just a few minutes later the Compound came into view, and he zoomed to an abrupt stop in the expansive driveway.

He leaned against the car for a moment, though, before going inside. He scrubbed both hands down his face. He needed to gather his thoughts.

Clint would be here in an hour, maybe less. Natasha was on her way. Tony needed to speak to whomever the director of the US Marshals was, find out about Prisoner 348, analyze the photo for clues, and figure out how they even grabbed Peter. Once Barton and Natasha arrived, they’d have a little under sixty minutes to find the kids before the first threat was carried out.

It wasn’t enough time.

His breaths came in faster, shallower, increasingly insufficient.

It wasn’t enough time, and even though Peter wasn’t his kid he was going to pay the price for associating with him and that just wasn’t fair. Worse, it was unjust. Tony was supposed to protect him, to be there for him. Not jeopardize him.

May.

God, what was he going to tell May?

Tony bent over, trying to catch his breath. This was all wrong, and there was nothing he could do, no one he could turn to, he was the most capable person to handle this and he had nothing, _nothing_ to go on. A light weight settled on his shoulder.

Tony looked up sharply.

“Getting stuck inside your own head?”

You know it, Tony thought, wanted to say, but he couldn’t speak. His brain was still trying to breath and shut down at the same time. He gave a sigh and shut his eyes.

Romanoff seemed to understand. “I’m here now, and Clint is on his way, however the hell you managed that. You’re not alone. This is a job. We’re still Avengers, right?”

Avengers.

Tony let the word wrap itself around his mind, a comforting blanket of red and rage and family and safety. And the next breath came a little easier. He stood up straight, and took a step away from the car.

“Right,” he agreed, and led the way inside.

He settle on the second-floor war-room. “How did you get here so quickly?” Tony asked, as he pointed her toward a work station, and began typing commands at Friday. “Clint said he’d call you only 8 seconds ago. Use your old login, by the way. It should still work.”

Natasha answered without making eye-contact, already fully immersed in files and records.

“Please. I started making my way over here as soon as I heard what happened. Even before we realized also your kid was involved, I knew you would help fix this. It’s what you do.”

Tony didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t think the Rogue Avengers trusted him, not like this. That Nat would turn to him knowing that he was still committed to the Accords was… telling.

“He’s not my kid,” he said instead.

Natasha took it in stride. “Okay,” she responded, and turned back to her work.

~*~

It was a _long_ car ride. Peter had let them carry him to the car, pretending to be more dazed than he was. About an hour in to the ride Shorty hit him again, though this time it was only a half-hearted slap. Peter supposed that asking _guys are we there yet_ for a solid minute wasn’t the absolute brightest move, but ultimately it was worth it just to see them get so annoyed. Peter stayed quiet after that, so he’d have time to think. Judging by the staticky quality of the radio, they were either out of New York or about to be. They passed through Jersey and were already getting pretty fair reception on Pennsylvania’s number one Christian rock station when they stopped for gas in an abandoned-looking rest stop.

Jeff brought the car around back, where Shorty pulled Peter out of the backseat and marched him over to the bathroom, holding on to his arm. He let go only to allow Peter to do his business, but he never took his eyes, or his gun, off the back of Peter’s head. They waited inside the bathroom until Jeff pulled around, this time in a different, civilian sedan, and Peter was pushed again into the backseat. This time, Shorty took the wheel and Jeff climbed in the back, next to Peter.

Peter hugged himself and pressed himself against his side of the backseat. His head hurt, and he was getting hungry. They drove in silence for several hours after that, except for the sounds of the radio. Peter remained silent. He looked out the window and tried not to be worried about the fact that they didn’t seem to care that he saw where they were driving. Like they had no fear he’d ever repeat that information.

School must have been out by now. May wouldn’t expect him home till much later. And… that was it. There was literally no one else who would think to look for him. Ned might wonder where he was, but he was probably assured by Mr. Morita that everything was fine. Mr. Stark wouldn’t think anything was wrong because the suit was fine, so he was out, too. Would Happy expect a call from him at the end of the night? Maybe, but he probably wouldn’t be alarmed at the absence of one. Realistically, no one would really start looking for him until the morning, and they had little chance of finding him. The thought that no one knew where he was or where to start looking for him was overwhelmingly lonely. Crossing state lines one of those ‘game over’ things in depressing cop shows. He bit down on the idea that this was this an incredibly stupid idea, with effort. If no one could find him, no one would be able to find those other kids.

He wondered who their Avenger parent was. He didn’t know anything about any of their personal lives, no one did. It probably wasn’t Thor, because he was like an alien god myth. These guys thought that he was Mr. Stark’s kid, so it couldn’t be him, and Peter didn’t want to imagine what a Hulk fetus would do if it kicked its mom. So that left Captain America, Black Widow, and Hawkeye. He toyed with the ramifications of each options to try to distract him from his own hunger, but when that failed he dropped it and tried to focus on something else.

On the radio, the same song was playing _again,_ what must have been the tenth time since they crossed into Pennsylvania. Peter tried to close his eyes and sleep some of the ride away, but about fifteen minutes later he heard the now-familiar opening chords start up again. He clenched his fists. He was willing to risk his life for these unknown kids, sure, but this? This was torture.

He didn’t have to dwell much on his growing frustration, though. Up front, Shorty began to fidget and stretch, cracking his neck and flexing his shoulders. He did this nonstop for a few minutes, and when it failed to get a reaction from his partner he tilted the rearview mirror so he could look at him in the backseat.

“Jeff, you up for some driving? I’ve been at it for hours.”

Jeff jerked awake from his doze. “Huh? What—no. I drove all the way from Queens.” Now that he was awake, though, he reached down between his legs and rooted through the shopping bag at his feet.

“Come on, man. I’ve been driving for three hours, and we’re still two hours out.”

Peter didn’t mean to speak, but he couldn’t stop it.

“Just let Jesus take the wheel, guys. Apparently he does that kind of stuff.”

As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. He wasn’t wearing his suit, he wasn’t Spider-Man right now. Peter Parker didn’t mouth-off to criminals without it ending badly. The silence that filled the car seemed to agree with him.

But then Shorty snorted, and Jeff smirked, “The kid’s right, that stupid song’s been on a loop. Turn off the radio or find a different station, Ailes. I’ll switch you at the next rest stop.”

Then he handed a sandwich and a soda up front, and pulled two more from the bag at his feet. He checked the labels, and handed Peter one of them. Peter was so surprised he just looked between the sandwich and the man holding it for a few beats.

“Take. Consider this lunch.”

“Um, yeah. Thanks,” he said sincerely, taking the sandwich. Jeff nodded once and turned to his own food. It was mostly mayo and the lettuce looked exhausted, but Peter ate it hungrily. They stopped shortly after and Jeff switched off Shorty as driver. Ailes made to climb in the backseat, then thought better of it.

“You gonna cause trouble?” He asked Peter, hanging off the open door to the backseat.

Peter shook his head. “No, sir.” He hugged himself tightly again. He was trying to get to where they were going as much as they were, and he saw no point in needlessly antagonizing them again.

With an, “Alright, good,” and a swift, single nod, slammed the door and went to sit up front. He fiddled with the radio until some classical music came on.

Peter pressed his forehead to the glass window.

The radio fuzzed out at some point, and when they regained reception it was Ohio’s number one Christian rock station. Jeff smacked the power button on the radio, and they rode in silence after that.

Peter dozed in the new silence, and jerked awake as the car pulled to a stop in front of a huge industrial complex. The main building stood tall, surrounded by shorter outbuildings with shared walls. It created a cascade of roofs, the lowest of which barely one storey high. Around them was forest and abandoned roads.

Jeff hoisted himself out of the driver’s seat and opened the door for Peter. He gestured for him to start walking. But before he even made it a couple of steps past the car, Shorty, Ailes, stopped him with an arm on his shoulder, that spun him around, not ungently.

“Listen, you seem like a good kid, but also like you inherited your father’s mouth.” Peter bristled a little at that. His mouth was all his. He wasn’t just a carbon copy of Tony.

Who wasn’t even his father, anyway.

“In there,” Ailes pointed to the complex, “it’s only going to get you in trouble. The Boss isn’t patient, and he lost two men this morning. He’s gonna rough you up a bit, no avoiding that, but don’t make it worse than it needs to be. No one here wants to seriously hurt you kids, so don’t make us.”

Peter didn’t know how he was supposed to respond to that, he didn’t want to lie to Shorty’s face. He was nicer than Peter thought most kidnappers were. He just hugged himself tighter and nodded.

Shorty nodded, too, and spun him around and gestured for him to walk. He was marched into the main building.

The dimness inside was tangible, even compared to the gray late-afternoon light. Peter had to shut his eyes against the harsh shift. When his vision adjusted, he could see that there were some forlorn lightbulbs fighting the gloom, barely aided by the tired daylight filtering in from the highest windows.

He was marched through the open area, across stairways and corridors to a back room that doubled as a holding cell. Apparently one of the men who had taken him had called ahead, because there were several men waiting for them outside the door when they arrived. Peter supposed the one in the suit was in charge. “You’re late,” he said with narrowed eyes as he glanced at Peter, then the two men on either side of him.

“We had a slight delay. Tried to give us the slip,” Shorty said by way of apology. Their boss nodded sharply.

“I see.” With an accommodating smile he pulled out a gun and shot Shorty between the eyes. The hot spray of blood surprised Peter almost as much as the loud sound in the enclosed corridor. He gasped and took an instinctual step back from the body, but was stopped by Jeff, on his other side. His fingers bit into Peter’s arm. Peter raised his eyes to the boss, who was calmly tucking the gun away behind him. He didn’t dare move, not even to wipe the gore off of his face, neck, hoodie.

“I trust you’ll cause us no more delays?” His voice was sweet, his tone peaceful and warm. Peter felt sick. The man’s heartrate hadn’t registered the slightest uptick at point blank murder. He shook his head.

“N-no, Sir.”

“Great,” said suited man, and with a sharp nod of his head the door to the room was opened, and Peter was shoved inside. The rest of the men followed. Peter could the body dragged to the side.

Two of the men began setting up a camera and adjusting the height of its tripod. Jeff, shaking and staring daggers at Peter, took position by the door. His boss didn’t seem to notice. He was standing with his back to Peter, whispering directions to the remaining brutish man. The muscle of the operation, then.

Peter probably wasn’t supposed to hear.

“Take two photos. One of all of them as a proof of life, one of just the girl for potential buyers. Have her change, first. Rough up one of the boys just a bit, so they know we’re serious.” The thug, who was facing Peter, nodded as the man spoke. He was looking somewhere behind Peter, a cruel little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Peter turned to follow his gaze.

There were two kids behind him, against the stone wall: a boy a couple of years younger than Peter, and a girl who couldn’t be older than nine sat huddled together on the floor, the boy shielding the girl as best he could. Peter offered them a weak smile, but his attention was drawn back to the boss and his thug.

“As far as I’m concerned, the Barton boy is more-or-less expendable, but not yet. We kill him when they miss the first deadline, to motivate Stark to pay. We need the other two intact, so no permanent damage to the girl or Stark’s spawn. Yes?” At a nod from his subordinate the boss left the room without looking back. “Have someone clean up this mess!” He shouted behind him. The door shut.

Muscles eyed all three kids again. Peter looked away from him, and scooted back so he was nearer the Barton kids. He’d like to get them out of here _right now_ , but there were too many bad guys, all of them armed. He’d never make it out the door. He glanced up. Or the window, come to think of it. Soon, though. Eventually they’d be left alone.

Muscles got a double thumbs up from the men working the camera, and without a word he walked up to where the two kids sat together, and began pulling the girl forward.

She screamed in terror, and her brother clung to her arm, rising to his feet in an attempt to pull her back. He was crying, as well, and screaming in a broken voice for the man to _stop, no, don’t YOU TOUCH HER!_

Peter couldn’t take it. These kids had done nothing to deserve this. He intervened with no thought of _what_ the hell he was going to do and _how_ the hell he was going to do it, but he couldn’t stand to hear their terrified desperation a second longer.

He stood up and rushed to the unfolding melee.

Hoping Muscles wouldn’t notice or would blame it on the commotion, Peter grabbed the girl’s hand in one of his, and Muscles’ in the other, and forcefully twisted them apart. The girl fell back onto her brother, and the thug jerked back half a step with the sudden return force. Peter looked up into the livid face of the man in front of him, and suddenly felt incredibly tiny. Peter Parker just wasn’t equipped to deal with bullies and criminals. He desperately wished he could be Spider-Man just now. He could end all of this in minutes, he was sure.

Behind him, though, he heard the hysterical, gasping sobs of the girl, and realized he had no right to feel vulnerable. Not now.

“You were breaking her arm,” Peter said, with as much defiance as he could muster. “You’re not supposed to hurt her, remember?”

If the man was surprised that Peter had heard his instructions, he didn’t show it. He simply stretched his left arm behind him, never breaking eye contact. Peter had to admit, the man was good at his job. He was _scary._

One of the men behind Muscles handed him some metallic bar from the camera case. “Yeah, I remember,” he almost whispered, and for the second time that day Peter forced himself to still instead of dodging the blow that came at him in agonizing slow-motion. The right side of his face felt like it imploded for a single breath of existence, and then he was down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 2/2 movies, Tom Holland's Peter Parker is so endearing that neither villain actually _wants_ to kill him. Both Toomes and Beck actively try to avoid it. There was a mini-homage to that in this chapter.


	3. Chapter Three

“You look like you’re getting stuck in there again,” Natasha said as she brushed Tony’s shoulder gently, and sat next to him.

The last couple of hours had been spent furiously searching, researching, and tracking any leads they had. Prisoner 348 turned out to be someone the Avengers had caught some years back. Assistant Director Gavenson had checked in barely 15 minutes after he began the interview, his assessment of 348 straightforward: the man was mad, and utterly gleeful at this turn of events, but he knew nothing about who was behind it. All his first-tier followers had been captured with him, and there was no telling who had taken up the mantle of setting him free. Tony trusted Gavenson; that lead was a nonstarter.

Clint and Tony couldn’t bring themselves to say as much outright, but they both knew there was no releasing the prisoner. Nat could tell they had each toyed with the idea; Clint had a particular glint in his eye, Tony a burning ember. But neither of them could hold onto that fantasy for long. Hundreds of people died the first time that maniac was loose. They couldn’t inflict that degree of madness on the world, not again.

Natasha knew that Tony had been flat-out forbidden by State to pay any ransom, either. She was mostly glad the directive came from above, because she wouldn’t have let him pay out, regardless. There was no telling whether they’d let the kids go, but the numbers were unequivocally against them. A familiar darkness spread through her when she thought of Lila and Cooper turning into another statistic of missing children turned up dead.

With no ransom paid or demands met, most of the time had been spent trying to trace the kidnappers’ route from Clint’s place and from Tony’s kid’s school. Iowa was a bust. There were no incidental cameras across the rural farmlands, and they had no idea what vehicle they should be looking for.

In Peter’s case they’d been lucky. It was a shame he didn’t have his phone or his backpack on him—Happy had collected it from one of the boy’s friends, and placed it reverently near Tony’s workspace—but the school reported that Peter had gone with two cops, and there were plenty of cameras on the surrounding blocks. Natasha and Friday were able to isolate the vehicle, and follow it on traffic cams for a while, but eventually that trail died, too.

“Yeah, I am.” Tony sat back in his chair blinked helplessly at the ceiling. He looked around to make sure Clint was still speaking on the phone outside, then he leaned forward, and continued in low, pressing tones.

“I just don’t get how they got him. He’s not as young as Clint’s kids, and he wasn’t taken violently like they were. What makes a fifteen-year-old get into a stranger’s car? He should have known better.” He shook his head, as though trying to make the puzzle pieces fit.

Natasha had seen this before, too many times to recount, usually when an agent was lost during an op. Come to think of it, she’d seen it on Tony, when Coulson died. She hated seeing Tony cling to fallacies like this.

“Making this his fault won’t make you feel better, Tony. You know that,” she answered. “And they looked like cops. Why wouldn’t he believe that?”

“Peter’s… different. He usually has a really good sense of dangerous situations,” Tony continued, and Natasha narrowed her eyes. The way he said that… He was protecting his kid somehow. She wanted to know why, and from what, and normally she would have pushed him a little on that, but not today. Watching him sigh, and bury his face in both his hands for a brief moment, she knew that if he thought it was relevant he’d have told her. For now, he could have this secret about the kid.

Who he kept insisting wasn’t his. She wondered if he’d just gotten used to denying it, or if he was trying to keep knowledge of the kid from her and Clint in particular. Nat didn’t know if the kid was Tony’s, biologically; SHIELD hadn’t had any records of a child, after all. But she couldn’t see how that mattered, or why Stark refused to admit it, even now that the cat was very obviously out of the bag. He could barely look at Clint, let alone lean on him. It killed her that two of _her_ boys were living the same nightmare, but one of them couldn’t seem to admit it.

And now they were here, three hours after that email had been sent, with almost nothing to show for it. They narrowed the likely radius of the kidnapper’s location based on how long they’d had to drive since Clint’s kids were taken, but it was an approximation based on a guess built on an assumption. At her suggestion, Tony had Friday start scanning the area for clues of the vehicles or images of the kids, but their best guess covered parts of four states and lots of dead-zones. The next stage was randomly checking possible hideouts. It would be a tremendous waste of time, but they were running out of options.

But that was for a little later. Their first deadline was up, and that was another thing no one was admitting. They were waiting to see whether (or rather, how. Natasha had no doubt) the kidnappers would uphold their threats. Natasha could see the way Tony and Clint stole glances at each other when the other was looking away; she assumed they were each wondering—and trying not to think the thought—which kid would be hurt. She saw it in the shame they each tried to cover as they averted their glance. Maybe that’s why Tony was trying to blame his kid for getting taken; to force his mind to think about anything else than the freshly-missed deadline.

She couldn’t really blame him, though. If she allowed herself to wonder what would be coming next—she didn’t—her thoughts might have been equally unkind.

Clint returned from his phone call. Seeing him limp back to them, Natasha wished he’d stayed in the hospital longer. He was lucky he’d been wearing his training gear when the grenade went off. Most of the damage skipped his leather-clad middle, and it seemed as though the deep wounds in his arms had stopped bleeding. His leg was hurt, and could use the rest. But she wouldn’t have sat out the search for his kids, so she didn’t really expect him to, either.

“How’s Laura?”

Clint didn’t take a seat. He loomed over her and Tony, his entire body taut, almost ready to snap. “As good as can be expected. She’s with the baby. Anything yet?”

Nat tilted her head. If they’d found something, she’d have led with that. Clint’s shoulders sagged in tacit apology when Friday announced, “Boss,” and nothing else.

Tony whirled around to his station and pulled up his inbox. Sure enough, there was a new message there.

**The fathers have eaten a sour grape**

“What kind of bible shit is that?” Clint inhaled sharply, but didn’t let it go immediately. Tenseness roiled off of him in waves.

Tony flexed his fingers once, trying to steady his shaking hands. Then he opened the email, the display blowing up in shimmering holographic lights before them.

 _This is on you. Consider this the last time you will be asked. You have 3 hours to comply completely, or you_ will _bury a child._

They read it through once, twice. Neither Tony nor Clint made a move to open the link that appeared beneath the brief text.

“Friday,” Natasha finally asked, her voice steady, “is the attachment safe to open?”

“It is, Agent Romanoff.” Friday was subdued, diffident. “It’s a video. No threat detected. Location of upload untraceable.” Nat was grateful for Friday’s presence. She didn’t think she had it in her to ask Tony to run diagnostics right now.

Natasha opened the link. Behind her, she could feel Clint stiffen. Beside her, Tony jerked back as though tugged by a leash.

The video was of Tony’s kid. He was suspended from a thick meat hook in a dark corner of some warehouse. It didn’t look to Natasha to be a farm, though. He was high enough that his toes barely touched the ground. In her professional eye—the only one she allowed herself the moment—she could see he was mostly unharmed. There was blood on his face from some unknown wound, and some bruises around his temple and neck. Peter locked on something behind the camera, and followed its movement. Natasha curled her fingers in Tony’s. He gripped her, hard. She could feel his pulse pounding in his wrist.

The kid’s eyes followed a large man into the frame, his back to the camera. He seemed to be wearing a mask.

Natasha stole another glance at Tony. He looked as though all his self-control was directed at regulating his breathing, his heartrate, his emotions. He had none to spare.

“Friday,” she said, “mark and track tattoos, accents, voice recognition, handedness, all of it. Run it against associates, classmates, nannies, anyone connected to 348 or his followers.”

“And religious affiliations,” Clint added. “Someone there has a church background.”

Tony only nodded slowly.

“On it,” Friday answered with what sounded like fresh determination.

The man on the screen was now looming over Peter, his legs crassly astride him, pinning him. With one heavy hand he grabbed the back of the kid’s neck and pulled him closer. “Scream nicely for the camera,” he said.

Then he released Peter, roughly enough so he swung back and forth on the dangling hook, and in the same movement prodded him with a handheld electric cattle prod.

Tony pushed back from the console and slammed his eyes shut as though he had been hit as well. His breathing was ragged, much like Peter’s on screen. But the kid didn’t scream. Natasha could see Clint’s hand firmly rest on Tony’s shoulder, steeling him. Tony dragged his eyes back up.

The man hit Peter with charge after charge, and each time Peter lost some of his composure. Natasha wouldn’t have believed that wispy kid could have withheld cries of pain once, let alone four—five—times. But with each round his gasp was a little longer, a little closer to a whimper. He was dangling freely now from his arms, unable to catch his footing between attacks. When the man paused Natasha could see the boy _was_ crying, but silently, defiance in every feature.

The man walked up to Peter again, and grabbed his chin, steadying his lolling head. He moved his own head, almost playfully, trying to catch the kid’s eye.

“I want to hear you _beg._ ”

Natasha knew the feeling of having absolute power over someone weaker. Seeing it played out between this beast of an enforcer and a helpless kid was everything she turned her back on, everything she fought against. A cold rage joined the darkness simmering in her stomach.

The kid narrowed his eyes, and took a few shallow breathes. Then he complied, with spite that seemed to lend color to his pale face.

“I want a _pony,”_ he rasped in a long, drawn-out whine.

Tony’s kid even had the audacity to look self-satisfied in the moment before he was hit with another jolt from the prod. This time the man kept the contact live longer, staying with the kid every which way he twisted and writhed, until the boy let out an agonized sob. Tony once again shut his eyes against the display.

“You look into that camera and _fucking beg_ your father to end this, because we’re just getting started. He knows what we need.”

The kid looked straight into the camera, as though he was seeing it for the first time. Natasha didn’t know him very well—at all, really—but she thought she saw something cagey steal across his features. His eyes returned to his attacker, as he struggled to cease swinging.

“I can talk to Mi—my dad?”

“I won’t tell you again.” The man stepped behind Peter, his masked face impossible to read, but his body language tense and alert. The cattle prod hummed once in warning, and the kid turned his face to the camera. He looked desperate—his eyes were red, his face wet with tears, and his voice strained—yet there was something disingenuous about the abrupt show of vulnerability where defiance ruled just moments ago. Nat narrowed her eyes and studied him closely as he pled, examining him afresh.

Beside her, Tony was watching almost despite himself, unblinking, barely breathing, as the kid begged him to make it stop.

“Dad, Dad please. Please do what they want, I don’t care if other people get hurt, that’s not on me.” Peter’s voice broke, and Natasha doubted whether she’d seen disingenuity there. “We want to come home—”

He turned his head one second before the cattle-prod was shoved into his back, probably alerted by its buzzing to life. The masked man lifted the kid roughly off the hook by the handcuffs that bound him, and tossed him to the ground. Then he swiped four fingers across his throat, and the video cut out.

~*~

There was silence.

Natasha could feel it. She could see Clint sag under it. Neither of them dared moved. In a moment there would be fresh leads from Friday, at least the seeds of them, but Natasha didn’t know how to bridge the palpable void between watching Stark’s kid be tortured and springing into action.

Then Tony buried his face in his hands, and laughed. It was shrill and unamused and somehow directionless, but he was laughing. Clint looked to Nat, panicked. _Was Tony losing it?_ She wanted to know, too.

“Uh, Tony? You need to pull it together, now more than ever. That kid needs you,” Clint urged.

“No, he doesn’t,” Tony said, his tone still high-pitched, but as though he was trying to get himself under control. He sat back in his chair, shook his head once, then wheeled back so he was facing both Clint and Natasha.

“He doesn’t need me, not like I thought,” Tony repeated. “That stupid, foolish, idiotic—he was in handcuffs _._ Did you notice? They had him in _handcuffs.”_

Clint made a sympathetic noise, but Tony cut him off.

“How much pound-force can handcuffs handle? A standard pair is—”

“Four-ninety-five,” Natasha and Clint supplied in unison.

“Exactly. 495. I’ve seen Peter easily exert that, without even trying.”

The defiance. The cageyness. The carefully crafted display of weakness. The _kid._

“He’s Spider-Man,” Natasha realized out loud, the words out before the epiphany fully registered. Tony’s single nod confirmed it. Of course. It made sense that the super-hero flouting Stark tech was actually Stark’s kid. This opened a whole slew of questions about Germany, but that could wait.

“Wait, what are you saying?” Clint was asking, looking from Tony to Natasha and back again. “How can he be Spider-Man? He’s barely older than Coop. He’s just a kid. And if he _is_ Spider-Man, why was he getting—” Clint checked himself, then continued. “Why can’t he swing himself out of there? That was _brutal_ , man. Why wasn’t he fighting back?”

“If I had to guess,” Tony answered, “I’d say it was your kids.” Clint stiffened, but again Tony didn’t give him the chance to respond.

“ _’We_ want to come home,’ not _I_. That was why he wasn’t fighting back. Hell, that’s probably why he agreed to go with them,” he added, to Nat this time. “I told you, he could sense danger a mile off. That’s part of his whole…” Tony encompassed a ball of air in hand, as though to illustrate. “Spider thing. He would have known those cops were trouble, but he went with them anyway. He’s trying to protect your kids.” Natasha didn’t know what fatherly pride felt like, from either direction, but she could recognize it easily enough.

“Trying to, or _tried_ to? Tony, I hope you know I’m not judging, it broke my heart seeing that,” Clint said, pointing behind him at where the display had been, then re-crossing his arms, “but it sounded like he was fresh out of ideas. He was begging us to release that guy.”

Natasha decided not to judge Clint for missing the theatrics. He was under a lot of stress.

“What, all that _dad, please, I don’t care if people get hurt,_ stuff? Nah,” Tony dismissed the idea with a wave. “It’s just Opposite Day in Peterland. We’re lucky he didn’t overkill it with a heartfelt _papa._ He didn’t mean any of that stuff, trust me I know the kid.” Tony crossed his arms too, now.

“That guy who was, who was tasing him? Peter could have knocked him out with a ten-hit combo even without his suit or his webs. I gotta think that if he wasn’t fighting back, _and_ he didn’t want us to comply with the kidnappers, that he has some kind of plan and some reason for waiting with it.” He signed.

“Or maybe not.” Stark looked torn between wanting to and being afraid of believing. With this, at least, Natasha could help.

“Does it matter? Either way,” she reasoned, “right now all we can do is keep looking, and wait. Releasing 348 wasn’t on the table, anyway. We know the kids are alive, and we know that in the very least, Peter can extract himself if he needs to. So we go over what Friday has found, and we keep scanning for possible locations. We can reevaluate in a few hours.”

Clint nodded his agreement, and clapped Tony on the shoulder as he passed him on his way to his console, already asking Friday to bring up what she has on 348’s associates.

Tony wheeled himself forward to his own console, and pulled up the video again. Natasha stopped him before he could replay it.

“What are you doing?”

“We need to rewatch that. Maybe we missed something. This needs human eyes.”

“I’ll rewatch it, Tony. You help Clint with associates, or write an algorithm to determine lurking habits of kidnappers, or see if you can track down where those farm accoutrements were purchased. You don’t need to see that again.”

“Yeah,” Tony countered, “I do. His connection to me is the only reason he’s even in this mess; every time they hurt him, that’s on me.”

Natasha wondered if he realized how much like the kid he sounded, and how much like Clint he felt.

“If they had done that to Clint’s kids, would you let him rewatch it?” She asked quietly.

“I—It’s not—” Tony looked over at Clint, and deflated a little. His eyes sought her out, helpless and overwhelmed with a pain she couldn’t name. “It’s different for me. Peter’s not my—”

This time Nat cut him off. “Tony,” she protested, shaking her head minutely. She knew Tony could read her. She let him read her.

He blinked back wetness from his eyes, and nodded. “Yeah. Let me know if you find anything.”

He left Natasha alone at the workstation. She watched him settle next to Clint, and sighed. She could read him, too. Even as he sat there, pouring over files and camera feeds and maps, he was replaying that video, screen or no screen.

Natasha turned back to her own review of the video. Her second viewing, knowing the kid was Spider-Man, made a lot more sense; the way hanging from his arms didn’t seem to cause him any pain—he didn’t even try to balance on his toes; the way he seemed to anticipate the bigger man, reacting before any action was made; and the mouth on him. Natasha was glad she was sitting with her back to the others, because by her third viewing she was indulging in the hint of a genuine smile. She couldn’t help it. She was starting to _like_ Peter Parker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, happy to hear your thoughts, what worked (or didn't work) for you, and of course any language corrections you spot are welcome!


	4. Chapter Four

Peter and Cooper sat with their backs against the wall. They’d been talking quietly for some time. They’d covered their names, who their parents (supposedly, in Peter’s case) were, and where they were from. Peter was happy for the conversation. It distracted him from the coppery taste of Shorty’s blood that had settled in the back of his throat; God, he wished for some water to wash it away. It also distracted Cooper from screaming and pounding on the door. He’d only stopped when Peter physically removed him, and reminded him as kindly as he could that he was wasting his energy.

Peter wished he could have stopped them from taking his sister, but the blow Muscles had dealt felt strong enough to knock him out, were he a normal kid, and he didn’t dare reveal that he wasn’t. So he lay still after he fell. He heard the men snap a photo, adjust the camera and snap another. Then they packed up, grabbed Lila, and left.

Now Peter looked straight up, where the high window seemed to mock him. He couldn’t see from here, but from the outside it seemed that every window led to a series of ever-lower rooftops which they could follow till they were almost at ground level. Maybe if he hadn’t interfered, they’d have just snapped the pictures they needed and left all three of them in there. They’d have been able to be out by now.

“I don’t even know if my mom and dad are alive,” Cooper was saying, and Peter admired how he managed to remained collected. He was certain he’d be sobbing if he thought something had happened to May.

“They were both downstairs when the explosion happened. I couldn’t see anyone when they grabbed us, but the living room was _ruined._ I don’t even know what happened to Nathaniel—he’s our baby brother—and I’m the only one left to protect Lila.” He looked to Peter, and Peter realized he wasn’t collected, not exactly. He was terrified, crushed under the weight of needing to care for his sister. Of being an adult.

Peter knew how he felt. He couldn’t help but think that he’d bitten off more than he could chew. Not that he’d had much choice, but he desperately wished he could talk to Ned, or Happy or May, anyone who could help him feel a little less lonely, even if he was doing this alone. The responsibility for these kids was… heavy. But he was older, and he was Spider-Man, so the least he could do was try to take some of the weight off Cooper.

“I heard them talking, those guys,” Peter offered. “They said they wouldn’t hurt her, I’m sure they just wanted to separate you guys, to scare you.” He cringed but tried to hide it. That wasn’t as supportive as he’d hoped.

“It’s working,” Cooper said. Then he seemed to gather himself, and asked Peter, “What about you? Did they grab you from home? Was Iron Man hurt, too? It’s obvious you’re his kid, by the way. You look just like him. Is your dad looking for you?”

“Oh, uh,” Peter said, surprised. And stalling. He knew what Cooper was asking, it was a reasonable question under the circumstances, and for a totally insane mistake, it seemed a lot of people were making it. Not correcting him seemed like an unnecessary lie, but… Peter decided to focus on the first part of his question, instead.

“No, they pretended to be cops and took me out of school. I’m sure my dad’s fine,” Peter said, and _shit._ He hadn’t meant to confirm that part of the story, but surprisingly the lie didn’t make his face burn. It didn’t even resonate of betrayal of his dad. Sure, he wasn’t Tony’s kid _-_ kid, but he _was_ Peter’s connection to this whole mess.

“I don’t live with him, so I don’t know if he knows I’m missing.” He paused to reconsider, then continued. “Then again, they took that photo, so maybe now he _does_ know, come to think of it. I guess they took us to try and force our parents to do something bad. Maybe give them money or something, I don’t really know. Your dad’s super awesome, by the way. I met him once.”

Cooper smiled weakly. “Yeah. I met your dad too, you know. A couple of years ago. He was, uh, nice. Funny. Called me and Lila little agents, like Dad.” He paused. “Well, I was little. It was funnier then.”

That information was a bit sour. Cooper knew Tony for longer than he did, and Peter was pretending to be his kid? It was ridiculous. Mr. would probably be as mystified as Peter that anyone could think they were family. Peter wiped absently at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie.

Cooper looked sideways at him, then offered drily, “You’re just smearing it, it makes you look like a serial killer.”

Peter stopped immediately. He hadn’t realized what he had been doing. The drying blood—and he refused to think of what else—from Shorty getting shot was beginning to itch, the smell nauseating. He snapped his arm down into his lap, forcibly reminded of why he was here in the first place, and what was at stake. Those guys weren’t messing around.

“Hey, Cooper, do you want to get out of here?”

Cooper stopped absently drawing patterns on the dusty floor and gave a little laugh. “What? No way. Not before we get our continental breakfast, maybe steal some robes.”

They were both quiet for a moment, and when Peter didn’t follow up Cooper turned to face him.

“Wait, _what?_ You aren’t joking.”

Peter shook his head, and stood up. Cooper followed suit. “What are you talking about? There’s twenty guys with guns out there,” he pointed toward the door, “and unless you can climb walls, we can’t exactly slip out the window.” Cooper pointed above him. “Not to mention that they still have Lila, and I _am not_ leaving without my sister.”

Peter gave a little leap, and clung to the wall about two feet off the ground. Cooper’s eyes widened. Peter jumped down.

“I can do things. These guys don’t know it, but I’m Spider-Man.”

Cooper looked surprised, but unimpressed. “Are you, like, one of those Hydra experiments?”

Well, that stung. “Spider-Man. I’m kinda a big deal in New York. And on the internet.”

“Not in Iowa,” Cooper said apologetically, with a small shrug. Then he refocused. “But I can’t leave, not without my sister. I don’t care what they do to me, but I have to stay here and protect her, or take her with me.”

Peter didn’t know how graphicly he should describe what these men were capable of and willing to do. He didn’t know their plans, exactly, but there was another man’s brain drying on his face, so he had a pretty fair idea.

“Listen, Cooper, you’re right that we need to protect your sister.” Peter tried his best to sound authoritative, calm, reasonable. Which was sad, because even he could hear how desperately urgent he actually sounded. He was maybe two degrees of separation away from wheedling. “But we also need help to get out of here, and to arrest these dudes. You can get out and call for help. I’ll stay here and get Lila, and then we’ll get out, too.”

The other boy crossed his arms, and looked up at the window. “My dad says it’s my job to protect her. I can’t just leave. What if they do something?”

Peter recognized the terrible combined weight of guilt and responsibility. He hated that Cooper had to carry it, younger than even Peter was when he first felt its burden. “The best way to protect her is to go get help,” he said. “It’s dangerous, I don’t even want to send you alone, but you’re right, someone needs to stay back with Lila, and it should be me. I—” Peter hesitated. He didn’t want to go on, he wasn’t even sure if what he was about to say would make a difference, but he couldn’t leave it unsaid.

“And Cooper, I heard them whispering before. They said they wouldn’t hurt her, because… because she’s little,” Peter lied, and it was easy. This kid didn’t need thoughts of buyers and photos in his head, not if Peter wanted to convince him to leave.

“And they won’t hurt me, not too bad, because I’m Iron Man’s kid and I guess they want money. But they said they _would_ hurt you. Lila and I will be safe here, but you need to leave.”

Cooper looked unconvinced. He was fidgeting on his feet—which Peter noticed now were bare—working at the sleeves of his thin pajama top with restless fingers.

Peter had one more argument. It wasn’t fair, and if something happened Peter would hate himself for however long he had left; but he couldn’t let Cooper stay here and die, and he thought he knew how to get him to leave.

“Besides,” Peter said, “what if you stay here and they hurt Lila, but you could have stopped it? If you leave now you could call our dads, and they could be here in like half an hour. If something happens to me or Lila, it would be _your fault._ ”

Cooper’s eyes widened again, glistening with newly formed, unshed tears. Then he nodded. Peter had hit home. 

“I can’t call my dad, he’s in Iowa and he’s under house-arrest. I’m not sure where we are, but we drove a long time, for hours and hours. There’s no way he could make it in time to help.” Cooper was just procrastinating, now, but that was alright. He knew he was going, and Peter could entertain his objections for a few moments.

“I’ll give you my dad’s—I mean, Mr. Stark’s number, to memorize. I’m sure he’ll either come or send people who can help us. When you leave, you can follow the road either to the right—if you’re standing with your back to the factory, or to the left. There’s a town just a few miles to the left, but they might look for you there. So maybe it’s better if you go to the r—”

Cooper was looking at him like he was trying to explain break-apart addition. He raised a single eyebrow, and for a moment Peter felt like he was the one who was two years younger.

“Are you trying to say _southwest_?” Cooper pointed to the corner behind him and to his right.

Nope, not younger, just stupider. “Uh, is that where the road is? I kinda thought it was…” Peter pointed at the wall that housed the window.

Cooper shook his head slowly.

“You _sure_?”

“Uh, yeah,” Cooper said, and he was looking at Peter with something approaching amusement. “I can do things, too. Like tell directions.”

Peter pretended to mimic Cooper under his breath. They each stifled a grin.

They spent a few more minutes going over their plan—their incredibly thin, highly-reliant on luck, plan—and then it was time to go. Just before they started climbing Cooper, embarrassed, asked Peter if he could have his socks.

Peter felt immediately awful. “Oh, God, yeah, of course,” he babbled, and immediately sat down to pull off his shoes and socks. Had he really been about to send a kid into the autumn dark, to walk along forest roads _barefoot_?

“Shoes, also?”

Cooper pulled on the socks, not seeming to care that they’d been on Peter’s feet a few moments ago. Thank God May made him wear a clean pair every day. Cooper wriggled his toes a bit, taking in the warmth, and thinking. Finally he said, “No, better not. If they see you’re barefoot and I’m gone, they’ll know you helped me leave. At least this way you’ll have some deniability.”

Peter was impressed with the logic, but the warmth that filled him was closer to pride. Cooper was everything he’d wanted to believe an Avenger’s kid should be. What Cooper was about to do was more dangerous than staying put was for Peter, yet he was doing his best to take care of _him_. It was like he didn’t know he was just a kid. Peter pulled his own shoes back on and motioned for Cooper to come near him.

The climb up to the window took longer than Peter had anticipated. It hadn’t occurred to him until he was clambering up the wall, trying to both hold onto Cooper and maintain his grip, how much he relied on his webs. What would have taken a _thwip_ , a leap and a few seconds took minutes, instead.

When they made it to the window some more maneuvering was needed. Peter tried, but in the end he just supported Cooper as he undid the rusty latch on the window, and then hoisted himself out into the frigid air of the late evening.

Peter climbed up after him and peeked out the window. He was glad to see he had been right. The window opened onto the roof of an adjacent building of the complex, the next one after that lower still. Cooper wouldn’t have a problem making it to the ground, at least.

The second thing he noticed was that he had been very _wrong_ about the location of the road. Where he thought the road would be was nothing but thick forest. Maybe it was for the best that Cooper was going alone. Peter would probably only slow him down. No one could prowl the City like him; he knew his way around even better than Mr. Stark, sometimes. But this was as close to the country as he’d ever been, and he was out of his element.

Now that it was time to actually send the other boy off, Peter felt reluctant to do so. It was worry, but also a sudden loneliness that surprised Peter in its acuity. He stalled, just a moment longer.

“So you remember the plan?” He knew Cooper did. The other boy had recited it back to him several times already.

Cooper stood on the roof, hugging himself as he shivered in the cold air. Peter unzipped his hoodie and handed it over. Cooper spoke as he put it on, zipped it up and rolled up the sleeves. “Head southwest along the road, but stick to the side of the road. Don’t flag down any cars. Don’t talk to any people. Hide if a car stops near me. When I find a payphone, I call your dad. He’ll send help. Then I hide until they come get me.”

Peter let go of the windowsill, readjusted his feet on the wall beneath him, and rubbed his hands together. It was _cold_ out there. “Right. Say the number back to me?”

Cooper did, and there was nothing left for Peter to add. He was glad, really glad, that Cooper was getting out. With any luck, they wouldn’t even notice before he had the chance to get some kind of head start. Which wouldn’t matter, if Peter kept him here all night.

“Good luck, man,” he said, and leaned out the window to do his special handshake. He remembered belatedly that Cooper didn’t _know_ the special handshake, and settled on an awkward, half-aborted high-five.

“That was cooler in my head,” Peter explained.

“It really had to be,” Cooper said. He smiled gloomily, and waved. “See you after. Take care of Lila.”

He seemed to melt into the shadows. Even knowing he was there, Peter had a hard time following his movements. Maybe this would all work out yet.

Peter latched the window, and released his hold on the wall. He flipped a few times because he needed the stretch, and landed neatly, supported on one hand. Now what? He paced the room for a minute, then went to listen at the door. A couple of guards sat outside, chatting by the sound of it. A little further away he could hear indistinct conversation, but that was all.

He could climb out the window, same as Cooper, and explore the factory complex, in search of Lila. But if they came in and found both him and Cooper missing, there was no telling what they would do with their remaining hostage. Peter couldn’t risk that. But then again, there was no telling what they were doing to her, now. What if she needed immediate rescue?

Peter paced the empty room a few more times, then sank gracelessly with his back to the far wall. He didn’t know whether Lila needed help, but Cooper needed all the head start he could get. Peter would give him time to put some distance between himself and the facility, and then go looking for Lila. It was a grey solution, at best; it wasn’t what he wanted to do, and it definitely wasn’t something he _didn’t_ want to do. He leaned back against the wall and waited.

~*~

Peter gave it about an hour, maybe a little longer. He was halfway up the wall when his senses hummed a sudden warning at him. He jumped down, just in time for the door to swing open. A man came in holding two bottles of water, but he didn’t even make it two steps inside the room when he realized that aside from Peter, it was empty.

“Where’s the Barton boy?”

Peter was prepared. He made sure his eyes were wide, concerned, and as innocent as he could muster. “I, I don’t know. When I woke up he was already gone.” The man narrowed his eyes, then stepped outside to talk to the guard, pulling the door shut behind him. Peter hoped Cooper had already made that call, or was close to doing it. It looked like their grace-period was up.

The door reopened, and this time the first man was accompanied by Muscles and two more men. “He’s gone,” the first man was saying, “so you tell me.”

The guards looked at one another, then back at the man who spoke. The braver one said, weakly, “I don’t know what to tell you, Higgs. He didn’t come out the door, and that’s where the Boss told us to be… Should I go get the, go get the Boss?”

At that, Muscles sprang to life.

He grabbed the man who spoke by be neck, and shoved him against the wall, lifting him clear off the ground. “No one says _anything_ to the Boss,” he growled, then let the man go. He turned to survey the room, pinning Peter with a glance that made him wince and look away, and then Muscles nodded towards the door. Then all four men left and shut the door behind them.

Peter rushed forward and pressed the side of his face to the door.

“… Anything to the Boss, you hear me? He’ll cut his losses and end us all in 14 rounds a second.”

“B-b-but what are we going to do?” One of the men whined. “He wanted the Barton boy to shoot, for the video.”

The sound of a _smack_ , and a whimper. Then Muscles said, “I’ll take care of the Boss. Say nothing until I do, or we’re all dead and he’ll disappear with the brats. In the meantime, send some men out to find him. He can’t have gotten far, he’s barefoot and there’s nothing around for miles.”

There was a shuffle of feet, and Peter took that as his cue to fall back. With a deft flip he was back near the far wall before the door reopened.

Only muscles came inside. Without a word, he grabbed Peter by the arm and dragged. He struggled to keep up. The grip on his arm was strong, probably bruising already. The brute of a man pulled him down corridors, through open spaces and dead machinery, up staircases and even through doors that led to what must have been other buildings; the complex they were in was enormous, and Peter didn’t kid himself that he could backtrack the way they’d come.

They stopped moving when they reached a room with a low ceiling and dark corners. Peter was unceremoniously handcuffed, which was cute, and then lifted to a hook that hung from the ceiling. It was less cute, if he was being perfectly honest.

Then he was ignored for long minutes as the Goon AV Club set up their equipment, again. When it seemed they were mostly done, Muscles stepped away from the tech guys, and came right up to Peter. He stood uncomfortably close. Peter could feel the bulging cold metal of his belt buckle push against the thin fabric of his t-shirt. He could smell the sweet-musky deodorant Muscles used, the slightly minty hint on his breath, and the sweat that beaded on his temple. The man reached a beefy had to Peter’s throat and increased pressure as he spoke.

“You will not say a word about the Barton boy, do you understand me?” He paused, but continued applying his full weight onto his fist. Peter jerked, but the man held him in place. “Do you understand me?”

Peter tried to nod, failed, and tried instead to gasp out an answer. The only sound he could make was a small, desperate noise deep in his throat.

Muscles still didn’t relent. Peter could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He couldn’t breathe, he tried but his throat was caught in a vise and he tried again, he couldn’t _not_ try—

“You say one word about the missing boy,” Muscles continued, and used his free hand to pull a handgun out of from behind him, “and I will _rape_ that little girl with this and _make you watch._ Do you understand me?”

Peter’s eyes were tearing, his vision was tunneling, and his lungs tried desperately to expand but there was no inflow of air. He couldn’t nod, he couldn’t even gasp anymore; any attempt just made him jerk helplessly on his chain. He raised his eyes to the man towering above him and willed him to understand that yes, yes he understood—please he needed—

The man let go. Peter coughed, inhaling in drawn, wheezing agony, each breath both too deep and not deep enough. Muscles, it seemed, was no longer paying attention. He turned away from Peter, his phone in hand. After a moment he began to speak.

“Boss, we’re all set up. I decided to go with the Stark kid. You were right, the other boy is _too_ expendable. We know what Stark is like, we want to light a fire under his ass we gotta use his own kid. Yeah. Yeah. Good idea, we’ll also push up the thing with the girl. Just about. Yes. Yes, Sir.”

He turned back to Peter with a predatory smile playing across his lips.

“When the Boss gets here, we’re gone-have some fun, little boy.”

Peter had some serious doubts their expectations would align on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments, thoughts, and corrections are always welcome!


	5. Chapter Five

Tony hated that that video of the kid put him somewhat at ease. His initial horror gave way to a more rational response, and he felt like himself again. The fact that Peter had allowed himself to be taken—Tony knew the others didn’t fully buy his hypothesis, but he was certain it was accurate—Tony respected that. He hadn’t realized his mind had been stalling until he was firing on all cylinders, again. Tony could finally _think_ , and was finally addressing problems he should have solved by now.

Like what the hell an “untraceable” email meant. He once spent several months emailing nuke codes to Rhodey, just because they were above his clearance and it annoyed him that there was no way to unknow them. There should be no feasible way for kidnappers, however skilled, to use the internet without leaving a trail Tony could follow.

So although Natasha had probably been joking, the first thing Tony did _was_ to rough out a search program. If Friday couldn’t back-trace the origin of the emails or their attachments, it meant very simply that the source couldn’t be found. They must have had some kind of concealment tech that Tony couldn’t begin to imagine, but could conceive how it worked. He spent some time altering his existing algorithms from searching what was there to searching for what _wasn’t._

In minutes, Tony had backdoored his way into the cloud servers of several major companies, and Friday was working faster than she ever had. Even so, she was scanning thousands of terabytes of information to find orphaned bytes, any bit of datum without a traceable origin that made a hop inside their narrowed-down area. They still wouldn’t be able to identify a location, but if it worked they would be able to flag any other data coming from kidnappers.

At least several of whom Clint had identified. It had been the Bible-thumping connection. Apparently, Prisoner 348 had connections to several rural fundamentalist Christian groups in middle-America, and facial recognition placed one of the two men who had taken Peter at one of their rallies. Also there was the brute—Matelli—they had seen on the video. _He_ typically ran with a crew, or a gang, headed by a crime lord who only ever went by the name of Boss. It was so unimaginative Tony and Natasha couldn’t help but roll their eyes at it.

So they had the _who_ , but they were still painfully, well, nowhere on the _where_.

And it took Friday just under an hour to get some hits on the _what_.

Tony began to screen them. The first few were innocuous phone calls and texts, _we’re here_ and _eta 60m._ Those could be anyone, or anything. Some were obviously a miss ( _fortnite later? moms not home)_ But the next one was a brief phone call that was undeniably Matelli.

_Boss, we’re all set up. I decided to go with the Stark kid. You were right, the other boy is too expendable._

Tony waved Nat and Clint over, and they all relistened to the call.

_We know what Stark is like, we want to light a fire under his ass we gotta use his own kid. Yeah. Yeah. Good idea, we’ll also push up the thing with the girl. Just about. Yes. Yes, Sir._

Clint reacted poorly to that. “Expendable? What the fuck does that mean? When’s this from? And what thing about the girl—is he talking about Lila? What are they talking about?” By the end he was shouting.

Tony knew his eyes were too wide, too weighted with unknowns. Natasha answered instead.

“We have the same information you do, Clint,” She said with equilibrium. She was the only person Tony knew, himself included, who managed to be a straight-shooter without being an asshole.

Friday, however, politely disagreed. “I believe the call may be referring to a stream that went live from an untraceable location shortly after Agent Barton and Mr. Stark received the first email, late this afternoon. It was live for over ninety minutes.”

She didn’t wait for instructions, just popped open a website that contained an embedded video, live at one point, of Lila.

“That’s not her nightgown,” Clint whispered, tears already lining his eyes, as he fell heavily into a chair beside Tony.

The girl was wearing a lacey, gleaming thing, maybe satin, with a perversely dipping neckline. She was sitting, sometimes standing or pacing, at one point crying; no one spoke to or bothered her at all. All the same, there was no doubt what the intent was.

The stream was titled _As promised avengers pup hot f9 new: starting bid 1m._ The bidding ticker wasn’t limited by time, and the bids kept climbing. Beneath it were lewd, explicit, awful comments, which Tony had Friday hide with a few quick strokes of the keyboard. Clint’s eyes were fixed firmly on his daughter, and he hadn’t seen it. He didn’t need to, either. He knew what he was looking at, just as well as Tony did.

“Friday,” Clint said, drawing a deep, shattered breath, “you said it wasn’t live anymore. Did anyone—” he swallowed, hard, and screwed his eyes shut against what he was going to say. “Did anyone—”

But he couldn’t say it. Tony blinked back moisture pooling in his own eyes. She was so _little._ This was more appalling than even his own past, his own sins and misdeeds. And this had begun long before their first deadline had passed—was this insurance in case he didn’t pay? He was beginning to suspect the Prisoner 348 had been a red-herring. There was very little chance State would allow him to be released, the kidnappers must have known that.

He was about to say so, but Friday was quicker. “Negative. The feed was stopped abruptly about an hour ago. No deal has been finalized.” Tony was never more thankful for how tactful she was. Her intuitive read of the room was better than his was, half the time. And so was her sense of justice, it seemed.

“I’ve tracked and locked the locations of all the participants on the live-stream, boss. They weren’t protected by whatever tech is shielding the source.”

Natasha looked up sharply. “You know where they are?”

“I’m operating at roughly 700% my normal efficacy. I know where almost everyone is, Agent Romanoff.” Friday said. “And now so does Assistant Director Gavenson. The FBI will surveil everyone who saw the stream, but not make any arrests until Mr. Stark gives the word. If it goes live again, I’ll know immediately.”

Tony nodded to show he understood, and at a gesture from him Natasha killed the video. Of course Clint didn’t need to see any more of that.

Clint excused himself to call Laura, but looking at him now through the glass walls Tony could see he was leaning on his knees, crying freely, his phone pressed to his forehead.

“We can’t let this happen,” Tony said, still looking at Barton.

Natasha somehow answered calmly, “We won’t. Peter won’t, either. But let’s find him,” she tilted her head towards Clint, “some good news.”

Tony turned to her, now, his posture languid but his words anything but. “Do you think they hurt his son?”

Tony didn’t realize how much he relied on Romanoff’s solidity until he saw it crack. For a moment, a second, a glimpse, she was those kids’ worried aunt. There was a slightly arrhythmic intake of breath, suspended somewhere between her nose and her lugs, and a deliberate, single blink. Then it was gone, and she was solid again. “Let’s just find some good news,” she said again, but instead of turning back to the orphaned data her glance strayed beyond Tony, at Barton. She said nothing.

Tony glanced at the clock again. They had two hours before the next deadline, and they needed to have a plan of action in one. They couldn’t afford to learn the consequences of missing another.

“Boss,” Friday interrupted his reverie, and pulling Natasha back from hers, as well. “There’s a call coming in on your personal line. Its origin is orphaned.”

Tony and Natasha locked eyes. She seemed to relax, to positively melt into her chair; Tony felt he’d be coming apart at the seams if he breathed in too deeply. Only a handful of people had that number. Peter was one of them.

“Who is this,” Tony snapped, almost before he realized he had activated the call.

A stilted, mechanical female voice answered. “You have a collect call from—”

Natasha looked just as confused as Tony felt.

The voice gave way to the prerecorded name. It was windy and the low voice spoke in rushed tones. “—Uh, is this Mr. Stark Peter-told-me-to-ca—”

“Yes, I accept the charges,” Tony yelled at the automated prompt. Natasha called for Clint, in a tone that disinvited any sort of argument or delay.

The call connected. Tony could hear the boy breathing heavily, as though after an exertion. He could also hear his teeth chattering.

“Cooper? Coop, is that you? This is Aunty Nat,” Natasha spoke, her finger up to silence Tony from jumping in. A moment later she lifted her eyes to Clint, to include him in her moratorium with a warning glance. Tony admired Clint’s self-control; in that moment, he was every inch the SHIELD agent, taking an impossible order because it was the right thing to do. If Peter didn’t have powers, if he’d been taken in the dead of night out of his bed, and was calling… Tony didn’t think he’d be able to let someone else feel out that call for possible traps. He didn’t think he’d care.

“Cooper, say something, are you okay?”

There was a moment of silence, and then the boy shattered. “Aunty Nat, it’s me, it’s me,” he cried. He took several steadying breaths that didn’t work, then sobbed, “I’m okay, but I left Lila and we have to go back to get her, but he told me I _had_ to get out to get help, I forgot the number at first and I didn’t know if this was gonna work—”

“Cooper, I need you to slow down. Take a deep breath,” Natasha instructed, her gaze now drilling into the speaker, as though she could see Cooper if she concentrated enough. “Great. Another. Good, you’re doing great. Now you need to tell me, are you safe? Do you know where you are?”

Cooper took another deep, serrated-sounding breath, and answered. “I’m safe. Those guys were looking for me, but I waited till they drove off. No one’s here, now. I’m in a town called Mogadore. Population 4,425, if you were wondering,” he added with a huff that was trying to be a laugh.

In a moment Tony had highlighted it on the map. It was well within the area they had delineated. He put up a tag for the others to read, _30 mins away._

“Cooper, I need one last thing from you, alright? Did you eat anything?” Here Natasha tensed. Tony looked at Clint. He had closed his eyes at the question, held his breath. He was standing still as the grave, Tony thought. He guessed this must be a safety code, and God he was a moron, for not having any set up with Peter. His kid actively sought out dangerous situations on a nightly basis, and it had never even occurred to him.

On the other end of the call, Cooper answered immediately. “Yeah, some marshmallows. They were sticky.”

It definitely _was_ a code, because at that Natasha broke into a relieved smile, a genuine, honest-to-Got mirthful grin, and stood back. Clint rushed forward and fell into the chair Natasha had just vacated for him, swiping at his eyes and barraging his son with questions he didn’t quite allow him to answer.

Natasha took a few steps away and Tony wheeled his chair back, to allow Clint some privacy.

“The armory still on the second floor?” She asked.

Tony nodded. “Yup.”

“We’re taking the jet?”

“Affirmative.”

“Wheels up in ten?”

“Five,” Tony said, and rose to his feet. He walked back to the work station he’d been sitting at, and leaned over to rummage through a drawer. He tossed it on the table in front of Clint. When the other man looked up, Tony mouthed _five minutes,_ extending the fingers on his right hand for emphasis. Clint nodded to show he understood.

Tony and Romanoff left the room together.

“We got them,” Natasha said, and lifted a fist.

“Looks like,” Tony replied, and bumped her fist with his. She turned left toward the armory, and Tony went to prepare the jet.

~*~

They arrived in just under 30 minutes. Tony had Clint land the jet in a clearing in the woods outside of Mogadore, and he left to scan the area. It took Friday less than ten minutes to scan the entirety of the town from where he hovered, high up in the air, and less than a minute to determine that it indeed was not a trap; there was no one in or near the parking lot where Cooper had made his call.

They decided that Natasha should retrieve him. Tony had argued that it would be faster for him to fly in and grab him, but Clint had been adamant that it should be someone he knew. He had wanted to go himself, but Tony vetoed that idea, fast.

“That’s a hard _never gonna happen_ , Sorry.” Tony said, and regretted it. He didn’t want Clint to think that he was taking this lightly. He sat in the co-pilot’s seat and tried again.

“Listen, man, I’m sorry, really. Ross would only let you leave if you stayed in the Compound, and under the explicit promise that you wouldn’t be handling any weapons. I’m already breaking both of those, but I can’t send you out there armed, and I’m sure as shit not sending you out there _un_ armed.”

“ _You_ aren’t sending me, anywhere. That’s my _kid_ alone out there, you of all people should know that staying put isn’t a goddamned option!” The helm vibrated with the force of his fist.

“He won’t be alone,” Tony said kindly. “Romanoff here is armed like she’s about to step out into a zombie apocalypse. Cooper knows her. She won’t let anything happen to him, you know that,” Tony said.

And Clint did, so he relented. They were now waiting at the mouth of the quinjet for Natasha and Cooper to return. They didn’t see them until they were practically at the foot of the ramp. Then, in a blur, Cooper was crushed in his father’s arms.

Clint held him for a long moment, and then another, inhaling the top of his son’s head, his eyes screwed tight. Tony sealed the jet against the frigid night air.

Finally, Clint released the boy, but only to extend his arms. He cupped his face, and tilted it every which way, checking for injury. There was a bruise on his cheek, which Clint caressed gently with his thumb, his mouth thinning to an angry line. Then he took in the rest of him. Clint’s incredulous look said he noticed it at the same moment Tony did. And it was hard to miss. There was a _lot._

He pulled up the sleeves of the hoodie—God, Tony recognized that hoodie, he’d know it anywhere—checking Cooper’s arms, then asked roughly, “Who’s is that?”

“Oh, uh, it’s not mine. It’s Peter’s,” Cooper answered, pulling the sleeves back down and curling back into the hoodie.

Clint inhaled sharply.

Natasha leaned forward minutely. “Wh—”

Tony froze. He rewound the events of the last several hours, desperately trying to get a grip on the timeline. Had Peter been injured after that video? The sheer amount of blood that stained the hoodie looked like enough to leave someone dead, enhanced or not. But that was impossible, Peter hadn’t been wearing the hoodie in the video, and Cooper said he’d been walking for hours before he called. So… Tony cut Natasha off.

“He means the blood, you walking heart attack,” Tony said to Cooper with a sigh that was both relieved and exasperated, “not the sweatshirt.”

The boy looked sheepishly from Tony to his dad, and recanted with a small, “Oh.

“Uh, I don’t know? There was a gunshot right before they brought Peter in, and he had blood all over his face, but he was fine afterwards. I don’t know who…” He didn’t finish.

Tony felt his heartrate speed up again, and honestly, he didn’t think he could take much more of this fluctuating hope and dread. He didn’t _want_ to worry about Peter. He was much more comfortable knowing that he had a handle on things, that while this situation wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t going to break him. But being strong didn’t make the kid immune to torture, and being a hero didn’t make him callous to death. The thought of Peter watching someone get shot, being close enough to have their blood all over him, that hurt Tony somewhere deep. Because unlike Tony, Peter was _good._ He didn’t need a violent wakeup call to set him on the right path, or harsh reality to remind him what his responsibilities are. He didn’t deserve any of that, not like Tony had (did?).

Clint had pulled Cooper into a hug again, and when he let him go that time, he was ready to talk business. They found Cooper some warming pads, snacks, and a clean jacket, and sat down to form a plan.

They knew how he had escaped, and when presented with the holo-map he had no trouble back-tracing his route to where he’d been held. Tony had looked the kid up and down with a newfound respect. Not only did he have the sense of direction of a dachshund, he traveled almost eight miles in three hours, keeping to the forest and ditches, while _barefoot_? Fear was a powerful motivator, he thought darkly.

Satellite imagery told them the size of the compound, but little else. Tony even flew out to try and scan it from a distance, but whatever tech was blocking all the signals from being traced in a square ten-mile area was also shielding it from any kind of electronic probing. Natasha had immediately suggested they were dealing with alien tech, and Tony cursed. Of _course_ they were dealing with alien tech. Because why shouldn’t Tony’s worst nightmare have a guest appearance in Tony’s _other_ worst nightmare? If the kid were killed due to fallout of that goddamned alien invasion, a part of Tony would die, too. Maybe not immediately, but yeah; he wouldn’t be able to bear that. So he needed to make sure that didn’t happen.

“We go in on foot,” Tony shrugged. It was the only option available.

“We can’t go in blind,” Natasha said, crossing her arms. “That factory, including the surrounding outbuildings and warehouses, makes what? A cautious 50,000 square feet? That’s a lot of ground to cover one room at a time, and we won’t even have anyone on the exits. If they hear us coming or they decide to leave, they’ll be gone forever.”

She kept her eyes on Tony, her tone all business, but they all knew what she wasn’t saying. _Decide to leave…_ The only reason they would spontaneously decide to check out was if someone placed a winning bid. The possibility was looming over them. They’d barely had time to settle Cooper in a corner to rest ( _and call your mother,_ Natasha had said, tossing a secure phone at him. Tony thought she didn’t realize how much like a mother she herself sounded just then), when Friday informed them that the bidding site was operational again. It wasn’t a video this time. Just a still photo of the girl in that sickening nightie, and a timer that was now active. It was set to run out in less than an hour.

Clint all but shut down. His every movement was sharp, every muscle taut in hypertension. As though to compensate, Natasha had taken on an extra calm, even-more-level-headed than usual tone. Tony just wanted to get in there and end this.

“We don’t have much choice,” Tony said. “We have to get in there, now. You and I can start on the east side, and we can send in some mini-drones to begin scanning from the west. They won’t have cameras, but they’ll be able to listen and report back, telling us where there are people. That’ll help narrow it down.”

Clint nodded, then stood up. “I’m coming with. I can speed things up.”

Tony—and Peter, and Lila—didn’t have time for this. “Didn’t we _just_ deja-vu this like half an hour ago? You are on _house arrest._ You cannot go in there arrows blazing, or they will throw your ass in prison.”

And all the tautness, the tension, the high-strung pressure of the last few hours, were too much. Clint snapped.

“I DON’T CARE!” he screamed, and struck the side of the jet hard enough that something rattled loose inside it. “That’s my daughter! That’s my…” He next punched at the holographic timer, but only caused the image of Lila to shimmer once before it stabilized. “Tony, they want to _sell_ my _kid_ and you expect me to sit here? That bullshit with the Raft was a diversion, you know it. This was their plan all along, they are _set up_ to make this happen, they have all the infrastructure in place. She is alone in there, and if we don’t find her before that timer runs out, she will be—” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. But he didn’t back down, and his eyes never left Tony’s.

“I will not let them get away with this. I don’t care if it sends me to prison for the rest of my life. What—let you go in? Arrest them? Put the kids through a trial? Fuck that. I am going to get those bastards.”

Tony broke the eye-contact first, but only for a moment, to glance behind him. He lowered his voice when he turned back to Clint.

“What about Laura? What about Cooper, who you’re scaring half to death? Do you think they might care if you go to prison for—” he lowered his voice even more, so he was barely at a whisper—“motherfucking _murder_?”

Natasha picked up before Clint had a chance to respond. “And she’s not alone. She’s in there with Peter.”

“He’d _fifteen,_ ” Clint hissed. “It’s not responsible, and it’s not _fair_ , to put that on him. He’s suffered enough, we can’t expect him to keep Lila from getting hurt. He’s a kid.”

“He’s Tony’s kid,” Natasha replied, and pinned with a withering look, even though he hadn’t been about to object, that time. “I looked him up. You’re thinking of him as a slightly older Cooper, but you should be thinking slightly younger Cap. He’s strong,” and the way she said it made it clear she wasn’t referring only to pound-force. Tony felt a rush of gratitude that she actually _saw_ the kid.

“And you’re right,” she continued. “He’s put up with a lot to keep Lila safe, he’s not going to let anything happen to her.”

Clint took a breath to argue, and Tony cut in again. “We’re here, we found them, it’s over. The FBI is monitoring everyone who visited that page,” Tony pointed at the countdown behind Clint. Let us,” his gesture now included Natasha, who was standing perfectly immobile, only her eyes moving between them, “go in and get them out.”

Tony stood back. As an afterthought, he added, “And we can cut the crap. Steve isn’t here, we don’t need to pretend that all deaths come at a price.” Both agents were eyeing him, now, their gaze sharp, penetrative, almost invasive in their evaluation. “I assume I speak also for Agent Romanoff when I say that no one who facilitated this is going to spend a day in the courtroom.”

The threat lingered in the air.

“He does speak for me,” Natasha finally said, and that was enough for Barton. He remained tense, but nodded once.

“Wait, really? For always? No backsies,” Tony said, and Nat rolled her eyes.

“Let’s get going,” she said, touched Clint’s arm in a parting reassurance, and pushed past Tony. “We have a lot of ground to cover.”

“We’ll get them,” Tony said to Clint, and lowered his faceplate. “You,” he pointed at Cooper, “if you’re not sleeping come keep your old man company. He’s grumpy, make sure he doesn’t tailgate the other invisible jets while we’re gone.”

Tony saw Cooper race to go sit beside Clint, and finally turned to follow Nat. She was finishing up a sweep of her weapons, packing away guns, extra clips, Bites, wire, cuffs, knives, and…

“Agent Romanoff, are those _nunchucks_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, thoughts, corrections, winning cookie recipes, bring 'em all.


	6. Chapter Six

Peter barely had a chance to catch his breath. He hit the ground, still gasping from the most recent hit of the taser-thingie. He tried blinking away the spots that danced beneath his eyelids, but only managed to change their pattern. Muscles pulled off his mask and tossed it aside, and yanked Peter roughly to his feet. Without a word he was marched out of the room, but in a different direction than the one they’d come from. He was taken, finally, into a large office, and then nudged further towards an inner door.

It was either a tiny storage room or a relatively large closet. When the door had opened Peter saw Cooper’s sister sitting hunched in the corner, hugging her knees, blinking up at the sudden light. Peter was tossed inside, his hands still cuffed, and the door slammed behind him, casting the pair of them into blackness.

“You stay right out here. Gun out. Safety off. They so much as sneeze too loudly, shoot the boy in the leg. If one of them disappears, Boss will shoot you. He shot Ailes for less. In the face.”

Peter shivered. He sat against the far wall, and listened, but it seemed those were all his instructions. A door slammed shut.

“Hey, Lila? I’m Peter,” he whispered, and scooched closer to where she was. “I was with Cooper before.”

He could practically hear the gears turning in her mind, before she decided he wasn’t an immediate threat. “Where’s he?”

“He got away, actually. He wanted to stay, but I told him to go and get help. I’m sure our parents are coming for us.” Peter had been going for reassuring, but apparently he missed. By a wide margin.

“My parents are dead. I saw them when they took us. They had blood all over.” Her voice was… not quite emotionless, but matter-of-fact. As though this had happened twenty years ago, not earlier in the day.

Peter was about to reassure her that he was sure they were fine, but stopped himself. He didn’t actually know that. The worst part about his own parents dying were those anguished hours where he’d been expecting them back, but had no real information. Peter had hoped and prayed and convinced himself that no news was good news, and then that there’d been a mistake, no one actually _knew—_ it was a black, twisted, inverse type of hope, that destroyed more than it created. He wouldn’t do that to Lila. If her parents were dead, she deserved at least to be taken seriously.

So instead he said, “My parents are dead, too. They died a while ago.”

“Are you still sad about it?” Her voice was so low it took Peter a moment to register that she’d spoken.

And what could he say to that, to a nine-year-old? That it was an ache you learned to ignore, even though it never went away? That one day you realize you haven’t thought of them in weeks, and you wish it was a painful realization, even though it isn’t? That sometimes, if you’re lucky, someone comes along who—

“Yeah, I’m still sad. But right now I’m angry, and I’m cold, and a little scared. And thristy. Are you thirsty? Let’s get out of here.”

He stood. By now the darkness had shifted into a lighter black, and he could see her outline in the meager light that came through the crack under the door. First things first—he snapped the chain linking his wrists, then broke the cuffs clean off. Then he repositioned Lila so she was in the deeper part of the closet, away from the door.

“Try to be _really_ quiet, okay? And stay where you are until I tell you to come out.”

Peter climbed the wall and positioned himself above the door. Then he tried to imagine he was Spider-Man, because he needed a flippant tone he rarely managed to achieve as Peter Parker.

“Uh, hey, Mister? Is there room service? I’m parched,” he called through the door.

The guard yelled at him to shut up.

“No, really though, or I’m going to write a scathing Yelp review!”

The guard banged the door, hard. Peter heard him coming, but Lila gave a surprised little gasp, then clapped both hands over her mouth.

“I said _shut up!”_

“Not to mention the one-star rating for the Uber on the way over here, next time you kidnap me, just text me the address. I’ll meet you ther—”

The door slammed open and hit the wall behind it. The guard came in weapon first, holding it at shoulder height. “Listen, you little fucktoad—” He stopped, and Peter dropped.

He flung himself off the wall and kicked at the man’s head, sending him crashing into the far wall. Dazed, he tried to turn around and raise his weapon again, but he was far too slow. Peter punched him once, hard, and he crumpled.

Peter picked up the gun, crushed it, and tossed it on top of the guard.

“That was—like—you were so fast, and strong! Like my dad.”

Lila came forward as she spoke, giving the guard as wide a berth as the small room would allow. When she stepped into the rectangle of light provided by the open doorway, Peter looked at her, shocked, then away, disgusted.

She was wearing a thin, sheer gleaming nightie that barely covered her. He could see her white cotton panties even without trying. It was the type of thing he saw in movies when the ladies would slip into something more comfortable. He always wondered what the fabric felt like; the thought made him nauseous now.

Peter couldn’t let her walk around like that.

“Uh, wait,” he said, and she stood back against the open door. She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, and back again, and it took Peter another moment to register that she was barefoot, too. He wished he had more socks to give her.

But first, clothes.

He crouched by the guard he’d knocked out, and pulled him till he could get behind him. Then he pulled his t-shirt off over his head. It took some effort, and Peter wouldn’t swear that he didn’t dislocate the man’s shoulder in the process, but he decided not to sweat it. Lila needed the shirt more than this piece of crap needed his rotator cuff.

“Here,” Peter said, handing her the t-shirt.

“What, here?”

“You should change out of that, it’s…” Peter realized that Lila wasn’t aware that what she was wearing was appalling. She wasn’t covering herself, or even embarrassed that Peter was seeing her in her underwear and creepy kiddy-lingerie.

“Cold. You should change out of that, uh, nightgown cause it’s really freezing, and we’ll be going outside. At least the shirt will cover your legs.”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, and looked at him. Like, _looked._

Right.

Peter turned around, facing the guard on the ground, while Lila went back into a dark corner of the room to change. When she was done she stepped back into the light, and dropped the nightgown on the ground. The t-shirt was absurdly big on her, and even from where he stood Peter could smell the sharp tones of body-spray roiling off the shirt. No one needed to use that much, especially not little girls.

They stepped out into the main room where Peter spotted a jacket hanging off the back of the guard’s chair. He put that on Lila as well, but had to roll up the sleeves so she could use her hands. Peter motioned for her to hang back, and went to listen at the door. Silence. He opened it a crack and peeked out to find an empty hallway.

Time to get out of dodge. Peter crept down the hall, Lila padding after him on bare, silent feet.

~*~

Lila turned out to be an _excellent_ sneaking buddy. She was quiet, she understood instructions immediately, and she followed Peter’s lead through the maze of rooms and staircases. The one time they ran into a guard she began bawling so loudly it hurt Peter’s ears, until Peter took out the distracted guard. A soon as the guard hit the ground Lila hushed, dried her eyes, and gave Peter a hand so they could continue on their way.

The plan had been to take the same route as Cooper, onto a roof and away into the night. But the first darkened room they found quickly killed the kindling hope that it would be so easy; The window was set high in the wall, but not so high that Peter had to climb. Standing on his toes he could see out of it, and what he saw was several sets of boots walking to-and-fro, flashlights shining all over the rooftop around them. It seemed their absence had been found out, and with it their method of escape. Peter motioned to Lila to remain quiet, and took her hand.

The crept again through the hall, ducking into darkened rooms and shadowy alcoves whenever they heard someone coming their way. It was slow going. Eventually they found a place to hole up three rickety flights of metallic stairs.

The room had once been an office, but it looked like some teenagers had found it at some point in the building’s history. The windows were busted in, broken glass bottles rolled around the floor, and cigarette butts were everywhere. Nope, based on the stench that lingered in the decrepit couch those definitely hadn’t been cigarettes. Peter closed the door behind them, shoved the couch to bar it, and then he and Lila collapsed on the couch. They could wait here until either the cavalry arrived, if it was coming, or till the bad guys stopped looking. Fat chance of that, he thought.

So he supposed that now they just… waited. Looking around the office, there wasn’t much to entertain them. There were a couple of closets, one of which hung open, and an old phone that lay crushed on the floor, the buttons long-gone. He snuck a glance over at Lila. She was sitting beside him, straight-backed, looking down at her hands. Or at the overlarge sleeves of her jacket, which had rolled back down and were lying pooled in her lap.

“Uh, thanks for the assist with the crying before, that was awesome.”

She lit up at that. “Aunty Nat—you know, she’s an Avenger, like dad—taught me. She says everyone underestimates girls, anyway, so it’s our responsibility to use it against them.”

Peter couldn’t really argue with that. But she was finally being chatty, and he didn’t want to let the conversation die out, again. “I met her, once. She’s amazing. And terrifying. She fights like a ninja.”

“You do, too. Where did you learn that? Dad doesn’t—didn’t— let me learn how to fight, but Aunty Nat taught me a little. Didn’t help, though. I wish I knew bow and arrow like Dad, then I could help get us out of here. I hate being little.” Lila curled her legs beneath her. “I wonder if Aunty Nat is dead.”

Peter had to stifle an incredulous laugh. _What?_

“What? Why would she be—Listen, Lila, we’re gonna get out of here, soon, and we’ll see how everyone is, okay? We don’t need to worry about it now.”

“But we’re stuck,” she said, and curled into the arm of the couch. “And your parents are dead, and my parents are dead, and Cooper can’t really fight, either. You can fight, but there’s too many grownups here. You can’t fight all of them, so I don’t think we can get out of here.”

Once again, Peter found himself at a dead end with the little girl. He didn’t actually know who would be coming and when, and he was just playing this by ear now. Any semblance of plan had evaporated into the night along with Cooper. And she was right. They were stuck. Peter had gotten into this telling himself he could always get himself out, and that was still true. But now that he’d seen what they were planning for Lila, there was simply no way he could just leave her here and walk away. He wanted to just take her and go, but dodging bullets was stupid even for him, let alone when he had a little girl with him. He wished someone would tell him what to do. This was all getting too big for him; being in charge of what happened to Lila was lonely, and scary.

So he said nothing, and eventually Lila drifted off to sleep.

Peter waited. He paced. He listened at the door to the distant sounds of feet pounding, doors slamming, and at one point, gunshots, he was pretty sure. He wrapped his arms around his midsection and shivered. He tried to tell himself he was being stupid; it’s not like he could have stayed there, or left Lila there. But the last time he had tried to run away had gotten Shorty shot in the head. He couldn’t help but think that that death, and whatever others followed, were at least partially his fault.

He returned to his seat on the couch, but realized that wasn’t going to happen. Lila had stretched over all three cushions while he’d been pacing, and he didn’t want to wake her. So he kicked an area clear of glass, instead, and sat with his back against the wall, opposite the door.

He tried to focus on Lila’s soft breathing and steady heartbeat, so he wouldn’t focus on the footsteps echoing in the hallways ( _they weren’t getting closer, for sure not_ ) or the shouts of men doing perimeter checks that filtered in through the window ( _there’s no way they can hear us in here_ ). It took Peter a moment to notice that alongside the even breaths and erratic footfalls he now could hear the slight thrum of a winged insect.

He found the bug in an instant, once he was looking. It was in the hovering by the window, directly above his head.

Peter narrowed his eyes at the buzzing thing. "Wait, I know you," he said quietly, and rose to his feet. What he thought was a bug looked like a distant cousin of Droney's. It was much smaller, but the sleekness of the Stark tech was unmistakable.

Lila was still sleeping soundly, her face tucked away from him, so Peter quickly and quietly climbed the wall. When he was level with the mini-drone he reached out both hands and managed to cup the buzzy little thing on the first try. "Gotcha," he whispered, and flipped off the wall, landed with a soft crunch on the glass that littered the floor.

He turned the mini-drone over in his hand. There was no doubt that this was Mr. Stark's design. The thing stilled at the brush of fingers against its underside, same as Droney. Peter turned it over carefully. There were no cameras or mics, no transmitter of any kind. Unless... He pushed down against an invisible seam, and surely enough a compartment popped open. Inside was a small plastic earpiece. He supposed it was tiny by industry standards, but it was huge compared to the comms he'd gotten used to.

He slid it into his ear, and immediately the staticky sounds of radio transmission filled him. After a moment, an unfamiliar voice followed.

"Come--yeah, I am! No, cause you keep interrupting me. Don’t you have a warehouse to clear?" A pause. Then a sarcastic, "You wanna do this?"

Peter snuck one last look over his shoulder to make sure Lila was still sleeping, then ducked his head between his knees. "Uh, hello?" He kept his voice low. He had a pretty good idea who he was talking to, but there was no need to wake up Lila if he was wrong.

A woman's voice cut through the slight static. "Guys," she said sharply, the continued in a softer tone. "Is someone there? This is tango-sierra-tree-India, do you copy?"

"Yeah, I copy, this is Peter. Uh, who’s this?"

“ _Tony,_ ” the woman sounded snappy. “We got him. Channel two.” 

Peter sat up straight. He hadn’t let himself believe until just now that Tony himself would be involved in this rescue mission.

“Kid? You there?” And just like that Peter sagged again, grateful. Because he hadn’t let himself realize how much he wanted it, either. He had no idea where they were, but they were using radio. That had to mean they were nearby. The fact that actual superheroes were involved made the burden of keeping Lila safe a lot less crushing.

“Yeah, hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter said. “I’m here. Man, it’s good to hear your voice.” He waited to be told what’s next. Did they have a plan?

But for a long moment no one said anything.

“Uh, Pete? Last time I saw you you were begging the Spanish Inquisition for a pony, I’m gonna need a little more than that.” There was a brief pause, and the sound of a repulsor firing. Were they in a fight? “Are you okay? Why are you whispering? Give me deets.”

Peter huffed out a laugh. He’d forgotten about the pony thing. “I’m okay, I’m not hurt. Well, my throat’s sore but there’s not much to do about that. My feet are a little itchy without socks, but otherwise I’m—”

Mr. Stark cut him off. “Yeah, too many deets, kid.” He grunted, and the woman hissed out his name in sharp warning. Then he was back with Peter. “Do you know where you are?”

“We’re up on the third floor. We wanted to get out on the roof, but they had guys all over. I thought maybe I could take them, but with Lila and without my webs, I didn’t think I should risk it. Right?”

Mr. Stark, and the man who must have been Lila’s dad, spoke at the same time. Mr. Stark offered a _definitely right._ Lila’s dad sounded like he’d just been waiting for this opening in order to burst into their conversation.

“You have Lila? She’s with you? She’s safe?” He asked rapid-fire, shooting a question just as Peter opened his mouth to answer the previous one.

“Yeah, of course, Mr. Barton. If you guys are here, I guess—I hope—you talked to Cooper? He’s alright?” Peter said, and climbed to his feet. Now that he knew that Mr. Stark and Mr. Barton were nearby, fighting, an itch began to crawl from his fingertips up his arms. He wished he had his suit now more than ever. There was a battle to take down these assholes, and he wanted to be a part of it.

“You call me Clint,” he said, and it sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh. “Yeah, Coop’s right here, thanks to you, kid. Why can’t I hear Lila?”

“Oh, uh, she’s out.” He heard how that sounded, and correct himself before Clint could interrupt him. “I mean, she fell asleep like an hour ago? I’m not sure, it’s hard to tell. But she looked beat. Tired! She looked really tired.”

Man, dealing with a distressed parent was like walking on eggshells. He was glad he didn’t have to do that very often.

“So, uh, what’s the plan, Clint? Mr. Stark?” Peter tried to listen at the door for signs of the fight, but with the radio static in his ear it was hard to concentrate.

“We’re clearing the entrance level from hostiles, with _extreme_ prejudice,” Tony said, “and Clint picked off a few more who were guarding the perimeter. All in all we got what--?”

The woman who had spoken before seamlessly picked up where he trailed off. “Sixteen men. Three women. No sign of Matelli or his boss.”

“What Romanoff said,” Mr. Stark continued. “It seems like we got everyone in the main area, but my scanners aren’t working this close to whatever disruption tech they’re running. How many kidnappers were in on this?”

It took Peter a second to realize he was being asked. Being on a job with actual Avengers, and being asked for _input_? Sure, it mattered some that he _was_ the job, so to speak, but he still counted it as a massive promotion from Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man to Interstate Avenger-Adjacent Peter Parker.

“I saw about that many, I guess,” Peter shrugged. “Should we wait here? For you guys? We’re at the end of the hallway on the third floor, up the staircase that kinda looks like an Escher painting, like it’s upside down? At the corner of the first floor where the windows are narrow and low?”

“Are you trying to say southeast? Tony, you need to teach this kid some navigation skills,” Romanoff said, and Peter thought there was more humor than judgment in her voice. The next moment, she confirmed it. “But that’s okay. I saw you on YouTube. You’re good at other things.”

That was—Peter couldn’t—Ned was going to _die._ Black Widow looked him up on YouTube?

He folded his arms and bit down on his smile, trying to look cool and unconcerned, remembering a little late that she couldn’t see him. It was probably for the best. “Yeah? You saw the thing with the bus and the zoo?”

Romanoff answered in a several successive bursts, like she was preoccupied with something. “The bus thing was… okay.”

 _Just okay?_ He’d caught it midair while literally holding a (admittedly tranqued) tiger by the toe!

“I liked the thing on the Queensborough Bridge. The floor is lava? That was art,” she said, and Peter couldn’t hide his satisfied smile anymore. He _was_ proud of how he handled that caustic spill.

“Yeah, you thought so? I mean, it was no DC, that stuff with the Winter Soldier was lege—”

Mr. Stark interrupted him. “Um, can the spider-people finish fan-girling over each other later? We’re kinda still in crisis mode.”

He had a point. But—

“Why fan- _girling_? There’re two of us, why can’t we be fan-boying?”

“You’re new, but ties go to Nat,” Clint offered, and Mr. Stark had apparently had enough.

“Priorities,” he said impatiently, then continued. “We passed that staircase you described on the way in. We’re on the opposite side of the factory now.”

Mr. Stark and Black Widow finished their sweep of the ground floor, declared it clear enough, and then told Peter to come down to them. They could finish searching once “you kids” were safe. Peter didn’t love being grouped in with the _actual_ kids, but he saw sense in their plan.

He dragged the couch away from the door, but Lila only made a light _mmm_ sound and rolled over, still fast asleep. When he bent over to pick her up she started, her whole body tensing, her eyes wide, frightened, and unseeing. “It’s me, Lila. It’s Peter,” he whispered, half in order to soothe her and half because it hurt to raise his voice more than that. She stopped, registered what he was saying, and then practically threw her head onto his shoulder, her hair tickling the side of his face. Her arms and legs curled around him not unlike a spider. She was so little, so light. Being able to bring her home felt really good.

Peter maneuvered so he could open the door without jostling her, keeping one hand to steady her head, and stepped outside. He turned toward the staircase at the end of the hall, and came face-to-face with Muscles, the AV Goons, and the Boss.

Without missing a beat Muscles raised a hand, and Peter screamed.

He _screamed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment? Insight? Correction? They are all welcome here.


	7. Chapter Seven

Nothing existed in that moment but pain. The world around him faded to the background as his arms tightened instinctively around Lila and he fell to his knees. His eyes—they were boiling, he could feel them bubbling and peeling and—his scream died out before his knees hit the concrete beneath him. Whatever air he had became locked in his already aching throat, wracking and raw. Each sharp breath was released as a grating, savage cough, while he struggled to breathe through whatever chemical was coating his face, nose, _lungs._

He could hear Mr. Stark and Clint freaking out in his earpiece, but they were also so far away _._ The only thing that anchored him to his _now_ was Lila’s arms, wrapped around his shoulders with desperate tightness. He wanted to scream again, to hold his face and cradle his head, but he wasn’t going to let go of her. All he could do was cough and try to breath, choking on air as it went in and gagging it out with the pain of it irritating his lungs. He could feel tears streaming down his face, which was his only hint that maybe the soft tissue of his eyes wasn’t _gone_ , fully burned away. He whimpered, it was a sad little sound and exactly what he’d tried to deny Muscles when he was electrocuting him, but he couldn’t help it. Long minutes passed as he panted, trying to control his panicked, heaving breaths.

Strong arms tried to pry Lila loose from him grasp. But she was protecting him right now, as much as he was protecting her. If they took her, he’d be blind and breathless and burning all alone. He needed to hold on.

“Leave her,” the Boss ordered, “but get him up. He can carry her if he likes. Doubles the human shield.”

“Kid? Peter, _what happened?_ Please talk to me,” Mr. Stark was so calm it circled back to urgent. Peter wanted to answer, he tried to, but it was like there was cotton obstructing his airways. Only strangled, anguished sounds made it out. Clint then said something over the comms, but Peter didn’t hear it.

A rough hand curled itself into his hair, and pulled him viciously so he was standing again. The mint mingled with sweat… Muscles towered over him, and with his free hand he cupped Peter’s chin and lifted his face so it was angled up directly toward Muscles’.

“Are you going to walk nicely or am I going to have to spray you again?” The hand let go of his chin, and he heard a can rattling close to his ear. “Don’t think I won’t.”

Peter’s breath quickened at the threat, which _hurt_. He didn’t know how he was supposed to respond. He couldn’t open his eyes, he couldn’t talk, he couldn’t even be still without wheezing painfully. He wanted to be brave, he thought he’d been succeeding, even, but he couldn’t take another dose of whatever had been done to him. Was he about to give in to these guys?

Before he could decide how to respond the hand shaking the can was pushed aside. “Excuse me, Matelli.”

Muscles moved to stand to Peter’s side, his hand still fisted in Peter’s hair. Now the Boss stood in front of him, and Peter could imagine those cold eyes staring him up and down. Peter realized somewhere in his mind that the man didn’t smell like… anything. It was even more unsettling than Muscles’ hot breath on him.

Peter heard a rustle, then _snap_ of a latex glove, and another. Then two hands wrapped themselves around his face, long, cold fingers latching almost gently behind his ears and along his jaw.

“You’ll excuse my associate. He’s rather soft. What he meant to say was,” and Peter could feel the man’s thumbs flirting with his eyelashes. Peter was shivering, he knew what the man was about to do, and he couldn’t pull away, he couldn’t move.

“You _will_ behave,” and his thumbs rested on Peter’s eyelids, and fire ignited anew. “You _will_ comply with our every request,” he began massaging Peter’s eyes, and Peter let out a single, wretched sob. “Or you _will_ be punished.” Both thumbs made small circles underneath Peter’s eyes, then pulled lightly on his lower eyelids and spread the pain directly into the soft flesh there. Peter burned. A bluish-whitish haze blazed a path all the way from his face to his brain, and from there down his spine. Peter couldn’t think beyond the fantastic fireworks of agony that exploded where his eyes should be. He thought he must be screaming, but no sound came out, just the ghost of a cry.

The Boss let go of Peter’s face, and as he drew stilted breath, he heard the gloves come off with a plasticky twang. “I want the girl to remain pretty, but I don’t need her to. I don’t know what tech of your father’s you used to get out of those handcuffs or help the boy escape, but it didn’t do you much good. You fell right back into my lap. You’ll be _thoroughly_ searched, and if you even think of fighting us, I will do to her the same thing I did to you. You both are _mine_ , and you will come with me like good little pets. Do you understand me?”

Peter was reeling, kept upright mostly by Muscles. He was still dazed, trying to balance his breathing against the spectacular, scalding pain from a few moments ago. The can shook menacingly near his ear.

“The Boss asked you a question. Do you understand?”

A new voice cut through his daze. No, not new. Achingly familiar. Demanding. “Pete, for Christ’s sake, say something _._ We’re one second out, you’re not going anywhere with them, we’ll make this better. I swear. But you need to answer them _._ ” A pause. _“_ I know your hurting but you gotta say it. _Yes, sir.”_

He didn’t know who Pete was, and he didn’t know what he was being asked to do. He was a haze of pain and arms wrapped tightly around him. But the voice was slow, and steady, and insistent and _clear_. He didn’t think, he just echoed.

“Yes sir,” Peter said weakly, the words a weak, breathy hiss.

“Good choice,” the Boss said, and in his ear was a sigh of relief only he could hear.

Muscles didn’t release his hold on Peter. He turned him around, and marched him towards the end of the hall. 

Lila shifted on him. She dug her head deep into his neck, and dug into his shoulder with her nails.

He wanted to reassure her. He wanted to tell her that if any of the Avengers in her life could help it—and there were quite a few—she would be fine. That help was close, it was _here_ , if they could hang on just a little bit longer. But even if he could speak, he wasn’t sure he believed that himself right now.

So he held her a little tighter, and when Muscles pushed him forward he stepped onto a service elevator without a fight.

~*~

Tony had been so sure this was it. They were done. They’d shot, killed, or incapacitated almost twenty people, and while they hadn’t caught Matelli or the Boss, he was sure they’d find them holed up in some saferoom or bunker deep in the factory. He told the kid it was safe to come out of hiding, and then—then that godawful raw scream. Broadcast in surround sound over his comms.

Tony and Natasha both froze for a second, then began running toward the southeast. He and Clint tried to get a response from Peter, but all they heard was desperate coughing intermingled with high-pitched breaths. They sounded so pained, Tony stopped in his tracks, his whole body poised to listen, to see if Peter would draw in another breath. It sounded like each one would be his last.

Natasha switched to a private frequency. “Tony, you can get there faster. Go ahea—”

A bullet whizzed past her head and before Tony could turn his head she was rolling, her gun out and firing faster than should be humanly possible. Tony flew directly in front of her, providing cover from the barrage of bullets that retaliated.

“Really, _now?_ ” Natasha muttered, as she dipped and ducked around Tony, shooting at the most recent nest of thugs who hoped to make a noble last stand. They were still an outbuilding and the length of the factory away from Peter, and Tony had no time for one-bullet-at-a-time. He rose till he was comfortably above the makeshift battle-station, even though this meant leaving Romanoff exposed. A quick scan showed that none of the men were Matelli or the Boss, so he fired both repulsors and a small missile at the center of mass. The explosion was remarkable, powerful enough to knock Natasha clear off her feet. Tony didn’t stay around to take notes. If one of them happened to live through that, they could crawl to the burn unit on their own.

He landed near Romanoff and helped her to her feet just as over the comms one of the men who had cornered Peter said something about a human shield. Peter who hadn’t said a word since that horrible scream.

“Kid? Peter, _what happened?_ Please talk to me,” Tony said, keeping his tone collected with extreme effort. All he got in return was strained, tinny breathes. He turned to Natasha, and the visible worry on her face somehow made everything worse.

“Tony, Nat. Friday voice-IDed the men with Peter. That’s Matelli and the Boss. You need to get to them, fast. The man is a ghost, we can’t let them disappear.”

Like he needed Barton to remind him of that.

Natasha stood up, and just as soon as she got her bearing she motioned with her head. “Go.” And Tony wanted to. God, he was _raging_ to. Someone was threatening the kid as they spoke, and Tony was _so fucking close_ and he was doing nothing about it—

But he couldn’t leave Natasha. She’d had his back, well, always, and leaving her right now, with more of these guys then they’d anticipated… Peter was alive, and he was a fighter, and he was Spider-Man. He was Spider-Man. Peter could take what these men were doing. He had to.

“Let’s go,” Tony said curtly, but Natasha gave a small nod and broke into a flat-out run.

In the four minutes ( _two-hundred and fifty seconds)_ it took them to cross the expanse of the factory floor, dodging dilapidated machinery and worn out tools and one more band of fools who thought _they_ were going to end the Avengers, Tony’s attention was divided between where he was and what he was hearing. Threats. A cry so desperately tormented Tony was sure they were doing some irrevocable damage. And then a pause, as the Boss waited for Peter to respond, to submit.

He didn’t. Tony did not want to find out what would happen if he continued to ignore them. Resourceful and resilient as the kid was, they were going to make him suffer to prove a point if he didn’t play along _right now._

“Pete, for Christ’s sake, say something _,_ ” Tony said, and he didn’t even try to calm his voice. This shitshow had peaked, and he couldn’t pretend anymore that it hadn’t. _“_ We’re _one_ second out, you’re not going anywhere with them, we’ll make this better. I swear. But you need to answer them _._ ”

Nothing but labored breathing from the kid. It occurred to him that if this wasn’t defiance, the kid was stunned. The thought was paralyzing. He’d seen Peter literally walk away from situations that might have killed even Cap. Right now, Peter didn’t need to be convinced, he needed to be led.

“I know your hurting but you gotta say it. _Yes, sir.”_ He spoke the last two words slowly and emphatically, and held his breath.

Finally, the kid responded, echoing Tony’s words in a small, charred voice. Tony sighed with relief.

A man who came forward, his arms raised in surrender, collapsed unconscious with a simultaneous Widow’s Bite and repulsor shot. The turned the final corner and saw the Escher staircase, but before they could begin ascending it, Natasha drew Tony’s attention to the exit on their left. Six men were making their way towards the door, one of them pushing Peter ahead of him. Lila’s head was visible over his shoulder, buried deep in the nook of his neck.

Romanoff picked off the man on the far left with two successive shots, and Tony took out the two on the far right. He wasn’t aiming for unconsciousness this time.

The remaining three men whipped around, Matelli pulling the kid around as well. He was holding Lila, one arm protectively on her head, keeping it pressed down. But the sight of him made Tony’s breath catch in his throat. He forced it out in anger.

His throat bore bruises, in four focal points of blossoming purple and black. The kid’s eyes were tightly shut, his brow creased in pain, and his face… it was a violent red, the tear-stained chemical burns reaching down from his eyes in large, fuming patches.

“Pepper spray,” Nat mumbled under her breath, and over the comms Clint offered a low, “Thank God.”

Indeed. Tony felt a sick sort of relief that whatever they’d been doing to Peter to make him cry out like that hadn’t been permanent.

A rumble from outside made them all look towards the door for a moment, then back at the standoff.

“That was their get-away car, may it rest in peace,” Clint said. “And… It seems it was carrying their concealment tech, because I’m getting readings from inside the building. There’s a group of six militants coming up from behind you guys, about 3 minutes out. Armed.”

The Boss, Matelli, and their remaining thug were inching slowly towards the door, using the kids as human shields, like they’d planned. Tony knew that if they didn’t stop them now, the other group would be on them, surrounding them. The odds were still in their favor, he and Natasha were clearly the superior fighters. But the kids were right in the line of fire, and that was out of the question.

Tony took in the room one last time, ran the odds once himself and once by Friday, then said, “Romanoff, stall them. I need to talk to the kid.”

He listened long enough to hear her begin a “You’ll never get away with this,” routine, which worked surprisingly often to elicit a few minutes of schadenfreude. He closed his own eyes for a moment. He thought of cheeky Spider-Man, and tried to erase Peter Parker the hurt child. He buried his worry, his anger, and his burning need for revenge. Then he turned off his exterior speakers and addressed the kid.

“Did these guys at least buy you a churro for your trouble?” He asked, watched the kid intently for a reaction. They needed _him_ , but if what the kid needed right now was heaps of empathy, they were going to be pretty thoroughly screwed.

But Peter’s mouth twitched. He dipped his head a fraction, but it was brutally yanked up again by Matelli standing behind him. The brief hint of humor turned into a wince.

“Sorry. That one’s on me. Listen, we’re about to be joined by another group of assholes with big guns. I’d like to have diffused this standoff by the time that happens, but we could really use your help. You up for one last fight today?”

Peter’s hand slowly tapped Lila’s head, still cradled in the nook of his neck, once. His shoulders curled in minuscule movement around her.

“Yeah, she’s right in the middle of this. But if we—you— move fast we can keep her safe and take out these guys before the bullets start flying. I know you can’t see right now, but I’m standing ten feet ahead of you, I’ll tell you exactly what to do. You game?”

In deliberate, excruciating slow-motion, the hand holding Lila curled into an o-k sign.

Tony opened his mouth to respond, when background noise filtered in. The Boss was leering at him, waving a gun around in triumph. “Oh, Iron Man has nothing to say to that? The great Tony Stark, rendered speechless at the sight of his brat?”

“Friday, external speakers,” Tony said, and tried to back-process what had been said. He came up with nothing.

“Uh, you don’t know me?” He ventured, and it seemed to fit.

The Boss laughed incredulously, and Matelli took the break in the conversation to release Peter’s hair, though only to hold the kid by the neck, instead. Tony was livid to see his fingers lined up exactly to the existing bruises. The Boss continued to explain all the ways he knew _exactly_ what Tony was like, and he tuned him out.

“Alright kid. The Boss is behind you, about 60 degrees to your left. Let’s call him 5’9”, so you can take a groin shot with your leg or hit his sternum with your arm. The guy holding you is using his left hand, so he’s just over your right shoulder. When I say _go_ , you need to get them both, Spider-Man. First the boss because he’s holding a gun, then throw your head back as hard as you can to the right. He’s over a head taller than you, so you’re gonna have to aim up. Put all your strength into it, or he’ll just tighten his hold. You don’t need to worry about letting Lila fall, if you get them both she’ll be fine. Got it? I know you can’t respond, so I’ll assume you got it. Hang tight.”

He looped Natasha and Clint back in. “Romanoff, stand-by. Barton, ETA of the second group and the cops?”

“About 45 seconds and 3 minutes, respectively. Are you done listening to this guy pontificate?”

Tony didn’t answer. Romanoff remained focused ahead of her, only a second’s glance out of the corner of her eye indicated she was ready to move.

“Spider-Man,” Tony said, “Go _._ ”

And fuck, did he _go._ He lurched forward with what little give he had, balancing on his right foot. With his left, he kicked behind him, hitting the Boss squarely in the groin. He doubled down in agony. _Good._ Matelli didn’t let go, and instead leaned in to keep his fingers wrapped around the kid’s neck. He had no way of expecting the force with which Peter would unbend his knee at the exact moment he kicked forward, doubling his momentum as he launched himself into a flip against Matelli’s head. Matelli’s head snapped back, hard, his nose gushing. Peter’s inertia took him well over Matelli’s collapsing form, where he landed in a crouch, never letting go of the girl.

“That was damn—”

“Impressive,” Romanoff finished, and swung her nunchuck over her head at the goon directly in her line. It whipped through the air, hit him in the face, switched hands and hit him again. He fell.

The Boss recovered enough to aim his gun at Lila’s back. Tony’s first blast melted his gun. The second melted his face.

Tony turned his back on the kids and Romanoff, and scanned the area. _There._ The six thugs coming up on them were undertrained and overconfident. He left them all groaning or… not.

“Is… Are we done?” Peter asked, and Tony was glad he was able to speak, if only in a rasp.

Natasha was closer to him, and she answered. “Yeah, we’re done.”

Peter collapsed into a sitting position on the floor, and Romanoff crouched near him and made to pull Lila away. But she buried herself deeper into the kid.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter whispered to her, and Tony could only hear him through the comms. “It’s your Aunty Nat.”

The girl leapt off of the kid with such force he reeled back, and had to balance himself with his hands behind him. Natasha caught and lifted her in one swift motion, and hugged her tenderly.

“Clint, I’m on my way out with Lila.” She looked back to Tony, who nodded her off, and headed out.

Tony raised his faceplate and made his way over to Peter. The kid was breathing more easily, where he sat, but his eyes were still pinned shut. He made a move to rub them, but Tony reached for his hands before he made contact.

“Wait,” he said, and pulled the kid to his feet. “Let me take a look at you.”

Tony retracted his gauntlets, and as gently as he could lifted the kid’s face, examining his neck, the blood on his face, and the burns around his eyes. “Wait here.”

He went to kick over the can that rolled free from Matelli’s fist, then returned to Peter. He cupped his face again, and tilted it either way, trying to glimpse the tell-tale oily residue amongst the wetness from his tears. “Good news is that it _is_ just pepper-spray, so the damage is only temporary.” The kid’s head rested heavy in his hands in palpable relief. Tony supported him, and continued. “The bad news is that its military grade, so it won’t go away immediately. A few hours, at least.”

The kid nodded to show he understood.

“Still can’t talk?”

“I can talk some,” he whispered, then immediately pressed his hand to his neck. That was a _no_ , then.

“Do you want to try to open your eyes?” Peter’s lashes fluttered, flirting with the idea of opening, but then he winced and shook his head.

“That’s okay,” Tony said, releasing Peter’s face and placing a hand on his shoulder. It seemed like the only safe bet for not causing him further pain. “We’ll try again later. Are there any other injuries I need to know about? Anything besides what I can see?”

The kid shook his head and hummed a _mm-mm,_ then aborted it and lifted the side of his shirt. There were multiple, overlaid burn marks. Tony sighed heavily at the sight. This kid. Tony had no doubt he wouldn’t have mentioned it if he hadn’t been asked.

Peter lowered his shirt and shrugged. Then he whipped around as Natasha closed the distance between them.

“Relax, it’s just me, Spider-Man.” She looked to Tony. “The police are here, Clint sent them in from the other side. The FBI is a couple of minutes out. Looks like we accidentally busted the home base of the entire mob this guy was running. I guess that explains all the extra hostiles,” she said, looking around. “They’ve arrested everyone who viewed, commented, or _bid_ —” she spat the word out—“on Lila.”

She turned to look at the kid, now, her eyes narrowed in contemplation, even though she must know that he couldn’t see her. “Peter, are you the one who put her in that shirt and jacket? Instead of… What she’d been wearing?”

The kid blushed—it should have been hard to tell but the color rose all the way up to his forehead and out till his ears—and nodded.

Romanoff bit her lip, her eyes narrowed. “Thank you,” she eventually said, like she was choosing her words carefully. Then she took a step forward, and leaned in so she was in a position to whisper in Peter’s ear. Tony took a step back to give them some privacy. He didn’t know what she said, but he could see the kid breath in, nod, and hold himself very still. They were the picture of intimacy, Natasha whispering emphatically and almost silently, her eyes still scanning the area for danger.

For maybe the first time since he met her, Tony was sure she was being one hundred percent sincere. He’d seen her cry before, and he’d seen her swallow past difficult words she’d rather not say, and he’d even seen her brimming with fierce protectiveness. They always smacked at least a little of her endgame. But this, now… It was somehow all of the above, and there _was_ no endgame here. The gratitude he’d felt towards her earlier shifted into something deeper, warmer, more fragile but infinitely stronger. Seeing her with the kid… He didn’t care to name what he was feeling right now. But Romanoff was free to stab him in the back every day for the rest of their natural lives if she kept talking to the kid like that.

She finished speaking, squeezed Peter’s arm once, and stood back. Tony shook his head in question. She raised both eyebrows to make it clear it was none of his business. He hadn’t really been expecting an answer, anyway.

“Let’s get you out of here before the FBI shows up.” Tony said, his hand back on Peter’s shoulder, guiding him toward the exit. But Peter resisted, and turned back.

He took two, three deep breaths then spoke, pausing before each word as though to make certain it was necessary. “The guy who…” He made a motion of holding his own neck. “I… can’t… hear his heart.” He stopped, and faced Tony. How he knew exactly where to turn, Tony didn’t know. “Did I—is he—”

Like an asshole, Tony was grateful again that the kid couldn’t see, because he knew his hesitation was painted on his face like a flashing sign. He didn’t know whether Matelli was dead; he hoped so. But for Peter to have killed someone, even someone as vile as this man, that was another burden the kid didn’t need to carry away from this ordeal. He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t know if he should check and give the kid a definitive answer or if not knowing was better.

But Natasha was quicker than he was, and unhesitant. She pulled out her gun and before Tony could blink in surprise at how suddenly it was in her hands, and shot the prone man twice in the chest. Tony and Peter both jerked in surprise at the sudden sound.

Romanoff’s gun was tucked away before the echoes died.

“He is now. That is _not_ your problem.” She didn’t wait for him to respond. “Clint’s waiting for us. Let’s go home.”

Tony didn’t realize how much he relied on the kid’s expressive eyes to clue him in to what he was feeling until just now. With Peter unable to open his eyes it was anyone’s guess how he was taking this.

“You alright?” He asked in a low voice, as he half-guided half-casually strolled with Peter out of the factory, one hand on his shoulder, the other on the opposite arm. The kid leaned heavily into Tony, and raised his head, took a tentative breath, then nodded. Tony knew that whatever he said next wouldn’t exactly be honest, but it would be what the kid _decided_ he should feel. In their line of work, Tony supposed that would have to be good enough.

Peter tilted his head toward Tony, and spoke in the same strained whisper as before.

“Is that why ties go to Nat?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy to hear your thoughts and comments!


	8. Chapter Eight

Going home sounded pretty good, but it was another thirty minutes before they left Ohio. As soon as they stepped onto the jet Clint replaced Natasha at his side, as he bid her to “Sit with the kids and coordinate with the Feds. Don’t let them have any more chocolate, or they’ll be sick. No, not the Feds, they can have what they want.” A moment later Peter heard the rustle of wrapping paper and _shhhhh, he’ll hear!_ He would die for some chocolate himself, but was a little embarrassed to ask.

He was led to a quiet corner, sat down on a wide bench, and give a fresh tee to change into. Clint—who Peter couldn’t believe he couldn’t see for their first one-on-one meeting—knelt in front of him. “Hey, Peter, nice to meet you. We’re gonna have a real introduction and a long talk a little later, but first we’re gonna treat your eyes. Check?” Peter nodded, and Mr. Stark touched his shoulder gently. “Kid, I need to make some calls before we can leave, make sure your name isn’t linked to any of this. I’ll be up front, come find me when you’re done. Barton, Laura’ll want to meet us at the Compound?”

It seemed like an innocent enough question, but Clint’s heart pounded a little faster. “You can do that? You _would_ do that, after… everything?”

“Anything for my ex-Avenger-in-law,” Mr. Stark answered, and he was already walking away.

“Idiot,” Clint murmured under his breath, and then addressed Peter in a much-too-loud tone, making him think that maybe he wasn’t actually talking to him, at all. “Tony seems to think I broke up with him, but _couples fight!_ ” A moment’s pause, then, “Yeah, you too, man.” He sounded belligerent, but amused. Then he turned to Peter, for real.

“Sorry about that. First, I know from experience that pepper spray sucks, and it looks like you got the really good stuff. How many times did they spray you?”

“The big guy, with the muscles, he sprayed just once, but it felt like _a lot_ ,” Peter answered.

“It was. There’s still plenty on you, and it’s gonna keep burning unless we clean it off, alright?” Clint then said. “You’re supposed to use baby-shampoo, but the only thing we had onboard was from Thor’s go-bag. So you’re going to be smelling like the God of Thunder for a bit.” Clint set to gently wiping his face with a wet cloth.

It smelled soapy and fresh and somehow flowery and metallic and masculine, everything Peter had thought Thor’s hair would smell like. He actually enjoyed himself, until Clint examined his face and declared it clean from residue.

But Peter’s eyes still felt like they were marinating in bleach, and he thought he knew why. “I think there’s a bit more in my eyes.” Then, afraid it sounded like criticism of Clint’s first aid, Peter added in a forceful whisper, “I mean, thank you _so much_ , my face really feels much better, it’s just that one of the guys, the Boss, he sort of…” he made a motion with his thumbs. “Rubbed it in? I think it got in pretty deep.” He extended his hand. “I can do it, though, if you need to get back to your kids.”

In the silence that followed, Peter noticed two things he’d known but had pushed aside in deference to his aching eyes. His earpiece was still active, and it was operating on a slight delay. He heard the sharp intake of breath and a _shit,_ all the way from where Mr. Stark was sitting, a full 6 tenths of a second before he heard it through his earpiece. Something slammed, and then Mr. Stark resume his conversation with “No, not you, go on.”

Peter had the fleeting sensation of walking on eggshells again. He took out his earpiece and tossed it aside.

In front of him, Clint sighed in what he probably thought of as silence. His heartbeat remained slow and steady, but Peter knew he was opening and closing his fist, flexing it before he spoke.

The silence extended a beat longer, and Peter awkwardly lowered his hand.

“I’m right where I need to be,” Clint eventually said. “Did he use anything to rub it in?”

“Uh, just his fingers. His thumbs.” Peter shivered lightly. “He kinda held me like this, and… Yeah.”

Clint set to work, tipping Peter’s head and washing inside his eyelids. “You shouldn’t share stuff like that so casually with Tony. He’s new to this. It takes time to build up a poker face.” Clint spoke in a low voice, as though afraid of being overheard.

Peter had been trying not to move, but he couldn’t help the confusion that crept across his face. “Mr. Stark? He’d been an Avenger since forever. This can’t be the first mob he’s taken down. It’s not even the first mob _I’ve_ taken down.”

“No shit? That’s one hell of an extracurricular you got. But that’s not what I meant. It takes a lot of self-control to play it cool when your kid is hurt.”

He also noticed Mr. Stark’s reaction, then. Peter wondered how good his hearing had to be for that to filter in without an earpiece. For a totally insane mistake… How had this not come up before now? “Oh, no, he was just surprised, is all. It’s not like that, he’s not my—”

“Yeah, save it, kid. I know.

“Can you open your eyes, now?”

It took all of Peter’s willpower to blink the first time. Then with a relieved smile he did it several times, happy it only stung a little. And what was more—he could _see_. Things were terribly blurry even when he wiped away at the involuntary tears that kept forming, but he could see.

“Oh, this is much better. _Thank you._ ”

Clint leveraged himself up, and Peter followed. “I’m going to check in with Nat, make sure she didn’t singlehandedly undo thirteen years of dental hygiene in the last ten minutes. Tony’s up there.”

He gave Peter a small push towards the helm, where Mr. Stark was on a hologram call. Peter hung back, not wanting to effectively barge in on a meeting, but when Mr. Stark noticed him he waved him over to the passenger seat. Peter sank into the chair—the cushion was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat in, he was sure—and tucked his legs beneath him.

“Mr. Secretary, the Compound has been historically used to detain Avengers far more dangerous than Barton. It’s technically not a _reprieve_ from house-arrest, more like being arrested.”

The little hologram crossed its arms. “By historically you mean _that one time barely eighteen months ago,_ did I get that right, Stark? And didn’t your charge escape and end up joining forces with Rogers to attack you?”

“I—I like to focus on the successes Mr. Secretary. Until she left she was _very_ secure.”

The Secretary sighed in exasperation. “Fine, but if I find one fingerprint of his at that facility, his deal’s revoked and he does his time behind bars. It’s bad enough I have to deal with the carnage you people left behind. You can tell your…” Here he leaned forward, his hands spread across his tiny desk of light, “ _anonymous associate_ , that next time she brings nunchuks”— _wait, what?_ —"to a God-forsaken rescue mission she’s doing the cleanup.”

Tony looked surprised at what the Secretary was hinting at. “I will let her know. You’ll have a detailed report tomorrow.”

“RHIP. Rank has its privilege, Stark. You keep that report so goddamned vague I can’t tell it apart from a daytime cop-show synopsis, you hear me? I took an oath of office, if I get even the sniff of foul-play I need to investigate it. That report had better stick to the broad strokes.

“How long will Barton be at the Compound? His deal was for Iowa, and while I can swing a furlough that’s where he’s going to serve.”

Tony had his arms crossed before, as he took in everything the Secretary said with grave seriousness, like he was hearing a hundred things Peter hadn’t and understood thousands of implications from them. Now, though, his entire demeanor gave way to something lighter, amused and dismissive. “Oh, it’ll only be one night, and then he goes home to Bumbleweed, Iowa. Two nights, at most. Max till the end of next week, honest. We’ll play it by ear. Thank you!”

“Stark—”

But Tony had disconnected the call, and turned to Peter with a self-satisfied grin. “He only pretends to be mad, it’s kinda our thing,” he said with a shrug. Then he grew serious, and eyed Peter, who was comfortably folded into the co-pilot’s seat. “Your eyes are open, you’re doing better?”

Peter nodded. “Much. Everything’s still blurry, and I can’t stop crying, but Clint says that’s normal.”

Mr. Stark frowned. “There’s nothing normal about you getting pepper-sprayed in the face, kid. God.” He sat back in his own chair, and looked out the windshield at the forest ahead of them. “Oh, this is yours.”

He handed Peter his backpack, watching as Peter carded through it, making sure his suit, web-shooters, and phone were all there.

“Thanks,” Peter said sincerely. “It feels good to have these back. I feel so helpless without them… Grounded.”

“Yeah. I want you to keep those close from now on, you got that? Your web-shooters need to be accessible at all times. Those things keep you safer than we realized before today.”

Peter wished it was that easy. “I can keep my suit close, but the shooters take time to put on and calibrate.”

“Not a problem. We can deal with that,” Mr. Stark said, and Peter was thrown back to a rooftop overlooking the Hudson. But this time Peter could hear the worry, the underlying need to keep _him_ safe. He wondered if any of that had been there last time, too.

“I’ll have Friday design you something modified for streamlined use. You can test it out tomorrow. Should have done that a lot sooner, probably. Before today, definitely…”

He trailed off, then shook himself. “But we didn’t, and here we are. We’ll probably talk about that later, but for now, first things first: May is waiting to hear from us. I spoke to her a few hours ago and told her you were missing but I was on it, and that’s it. I didn’t think you’d want me to elaborate about big guys with cattle prods.”

“God, no,” Peter chocked out. If May found out about this, he’d be un-Spider-Manned faster than he could be grounded. She’d never officially retracted her “run the other way” policy, even if she knew he didn’t really abide by it. If she knew he’d basically volunteered for this…

“Please let’s not tell May. She’ll freak out, and then she’ll kill me. I can’t see her like this!”

“Well, you literally can’t,” Mr. Stark said, raising an eyebrow, “but I hear you, and I agree. You’ll stay at the Compound tonight, it’ll be a slumber party. Fun times in the med-bay. I’ll call May and tell her you’re…” He waved a hand a Peter, inviting him to chime in.

“Fell asleep. Tell her I was doing recon without a suit before, and now I fell asleep watching TV. She’ll tell you not to wake me.”

Tony gave him a mock salute, and made the call. Sure enough, when he told May that Peter was fine but had fallen asleep, she asked if it would be okay to let him spend the night there. “Tell him I said it was okay. And if he gets pissy that we didn’t ask him, tell him I said he needed his beauty sleep. And thank you, Tony. I was worried he got himself into trouble. You know how impulsive he can be.”

Tony turned to Peter, and gave him a _look_. It was hard to tell what exactly it was from where Peter sat—everything was still blurry---but he had no doubt it wasn’t good. “Yeah,” Tony said, and Peter could hear in his tone everything he missed in his face. “He does tend to get himself into trouble, doesn’t he?

“He’s beat, but I’m sure he’ll be fine in the morning. I’ll just let him sleep. Goodnight, May.”

As soon as he disconnected the call Peter offered a low, “I don’t get _pissy_ ,” and Tony laughed. They were quiet for a few moments, a comfortable silence, while Tony pulled up maps and cleared a flight path and spoke on the radio to someone who was with a Laura. That nudged Peter from his almost-sleepy reverie.

“Is Laura their mom?” When Mr. Stark gave a distracted _yup_ Peter added, “That’s good. The kids both thought that maybe she’d died. Especially Lila. She thought _everyone_ died. She’s kinda intense.” He looked behind him to where he thought Natasha, Clint and the kids were, but he couldn’t even make out shapes at this distance, only their voices jumbled together in conversation.

“Preoccupied with the fear that her parents and loved ones might be killed? I hardly think you and I are in a position to judge that, kid.” Peter gave a small laugh, cause _true_ , then narrowed his eyes. Had he ever told Mr. Stark about that particular fear? Did Tony know that he and May were the stars of those nightmares?

He couldn't possibly. He probably just meant because their parents _had_ died unexpectedly.

“And now I have this new thing to be preoccupied about, and I have to be honest, I’m not loving it.” Mr. Stark leaned forward on his knees, and turned to look at Peter. “I have a lot of enemies, kid, and if these B-rate mobsters made the mistake of thinking we were—that _you_ were—you know, mine, others are going to make it too.

“I can’t have that. This time we were lucky, that they wanted you for ransom. But what if next time instead of shooting the cop that took you, they just shoot you, no preamble? No long-game?” He ran a hand over his face and looked out the windshield. “I just…” He signed and this time made direct, unapologetic eye-contact with Peter.

“I know you’re Spider-Man, and you can take care of yourself, but one of these days that won’t be enough. I know you won’t stop. But I need to know that you won’t be killed because someone’s trying to hurt me. It’s bad enough seeing you hurt because of your enemies. I can’t let you get hurt because of mine.

“Which is why,” Mr. Stark said, and sat straighter, his hands on his knees, and Peter belatedly realized Mr. Stark had been building up to this. “—you need to promise me, from right now going forward, you will _never_ let anyone believe you and I are related.”

He must have misread Peter’s relief—the last time Mr. Stark had built up so dramatically he’d taken his suit, and Peter was _sure_ he’d been going there again—as recalcitrance. He continued to push the point home.

“I’m serious. No more leaning-in to this absurd narrative. If someone who doesn’t like me so much as _hints_ that you’re my son, nephew, foster kid, ward, whatever, you shut it down first, and ask questions later. And you shut it down fast. Yeah?”

Peter was dizzy with relief. Not only had Mr. Stark not taken the suit, he’d addressed the elephant that had been sitting on Peter’s shoulder since early that morning. Tony wasn’t his father, it was crazy to think so, and they were both on the same page about it. Peter had a dad, after all, and he had Uncle Ben, who came pretty close for a long time. He didn’t need, or want, anyone to replace them. A thought flickered that it was safer for Tony that way, too, but it was gone before Peter could properly take hold of it; but it didn’t really make a difference. He nodded. “Shut it down first, and shut it down fast. Gotcha.”

Tony nodded once, too. “Great.”

Neither of them said anything.

Tony looked over Peter again, and Peter, not knowing where to look, let his glance flit from Mr. Stark’s face to the controls, out the window, and back to Mr. Stark, who was still looking at him.

The silence stretched out.

Uncomfortably.

“Gah, I’m no good at this part,” Mr. Stark finally said. Peter rather thought they’d finished, so he didn’t know what Mr. Stark had meant. He looked up at him, confused, and Mr. Stark elaborated.

“I think I got a hang of the setting-borders part,” he said, and Peter allowed himself a small snort (“You did,” he answered under his breath). “I definitely aced the swooping in to save the day part,” Tony added contemplatively, and Peter nodded along (“You nailed it.”). Then Mr. Stark added, “Zero experience in this part, kid.

“Ha, I probably actually do have some experience with _don’t tell anyone you’re my son,_ though it was maybe more along the lines of _you’re no son of mine_? Doesn’t matter. But I don’t think I ever got as far as _please don’t get yourself killed._ I honestly don’t know what’s next. Like, do you need something? Are you cold? Hungry?”

Experience or no, Mr. Stark was spot-on. “Um, yeah, I’m starving. And thirsty. Is there water?”

Tony seemed grateful for something to busy himself with. He opened and slammed shut various compartments and cupboards, sometimes leaning over Peter to the co-pilot’s side, sometimes rummaging through his own area. He tossed a bottle of water, some pretzels, a bag of craisins, a sleeve of saltine crackers, and a second bottle of water at Peter. Peter couldn’t so much see the items, but he caught each of them and pooled them in his lap.

“Sorry this is all healthy,” Tony said. “Pepper. But we’ll call ahead, have Happy order some food for us. Oh, crap. I should call Happy. He was worried.”

Peter finished draining the first bottle of water, and _wow_. It felt so good to get that horrible coppery taste out of the back of his mouth. He twisted the second bottle open. “Happy’ll be there? That’s fun. It will be like a real sleepover!”

Tony looked at him, like… He wasn’t sure exactly like what. It was fond and relaxed and a little sad, and Peter was surprised to realize that he didn’t really need to decipher all the layers of that glance. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it was good. It was his.

He sat back with a bag of craisins just as Natasha and Clint came up from the rear of the jet.

“Kids crashed,” Clint said.

“How are they?” Mr. Stark asked, though he didn’t turn to look at Clint. He busied himself again with the flight instruments.

“Coop’s good. Shaken, but good. Lila… I don’t know. I don’t want to push her, but… She hasn’t cried. That can’t be normal, right?”

“It’s been less than an hour, Clint.”

“I got a child-therapist waiting back at the Compound, already briefed.”

“Crying makes her feel little,” Peter said, and then felt like a Brazilian boa-constrictor at the zoo, because they were all looking at him. He let his glance flit from Mr. Stark in the pilot’s seat, to Clint who was standing directly behind him, to Nat who was standing between his seat and Mr. Stark’s. They each had some variant of disbelief across their features.

“I mean, maybe, I dunno? Just something she said before. While we were waiting.”

Another stretch of silence followed. He gathered he was meant to continue.

“I don’t really know what she meant, really. She only cried once, because ‘everyone underestimates girls,’ and she kinda saved our lives. But then she said that she hates feeling little, and I kinda thought that maybe the two were connected.”

“Did she say anything else?” Clint sounded scared, and helpless. Is this what the adults sounded like when the little kids were away? What the _Avengers_ sounded like? It was disquieting.

“Uh, that she wanted to learn archery? Well, she _said_ ‘bow and arrow,’ but I’m guessing she meant archery. ‘Like Dad,’” Peter added.

He circuited the others again with his glance. Mr. Stark was busy at the helm, but he swallowed deeply several times. Whether he was upset or moved on Clint’s behalf, Peter couldn’t tell.

Clint was looking at Nat, with narrowed eyes and tight lips. Nat was looking back with a look that couldn’t have said _I told you so_ more clearly if she’d been chanting it while doing moose-horns with her hands.

“Fine,” Clint snapped, even though no one said anything. “When we get home.”

Natasha smiled and crossed her arms. “Tony, the Feds cleared us. Wheels up?” She asked.

Shortly after takeoff Peter put his head back. He wasn’t sleeping—he couldn’t, even if he wanted to—but it felt good to relax, his eyes closed. It felt good to be safe, and a little more fed then he’d been all day, and finally not thirsty. Or alone. He hadn’t been left alone since the factory, and that felt… good.

“Hey, guys,” he heard Natasha say, and her tone was… Peter could hear her smiling, even without seeing. He cracked his eyes open. She was standing behind Tony’s pilot seat, Clint strapped into a seat on her other side. She placed a hand Tony’s shoulder, and turned to include Clint in her glance before she spoke. “It’s ten p.m.”

Clint shook his head and smiled, and Mr. Stark put his hand on hers, atop his shoulder. It was one of the few times Peter had ever seen him initiate contact more intimate than a clap on the back, with anyone.

“Yeah. We know where they are,” Tony said.

Peter didn’t get it. Must be some Avengers code, he thought, and closed his eyes again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few words on some of my choices in this chapter: 
> 
> 1) Peter's man-crush on Thor is canonical. In Homecoming he says "I thought you'd be more handsome" during the bank-robbery, and then we see he spends time pretending to be Thor in the mirror (this kid!). Then, in IW, he pulls the most confused face when Quill calls Thor "not that good-looking." It's canon, and it's adorable, and I love all the good people who made that decision across two movies. 
> 
> 2) Post-Endgame (and spoiler ahead, just fyi), I can't really fathom Ross as a villain/asshole/hardliner. Pepper invited him to the super-intimate funeral service they held for Tony, and I can't see her doing that if he wasn't someone Tony genuinely appreciated.
> 
> 3) Clint seemed _oddly_ and disproportionately concerned with Lila's safety in Endgame, considering he has two other children who've been dusted. The idea for this fic had actually been rattling in my brain since before Endgame, but it felt like a good tie-in to explain why he was so preoccupied with Lila, and why they were practicing archery. 
> 
> And (all) that said, I'm happy to hear your thoughts, comments, and musings!


	9. Chapter Nine

Peter thought he should be exhausted. It’d been hours since he came upstairs, and if the events of the day hadn’t done it, he was sure the scalding shower would. He checked the time on his cellphone, and it was 3:08; not even a full minute since the last time he checked. Ugh, this was so stupid. He rolled over, adjusted his heavy blanket, and tried to will sleep upon himself. When he realized his eyes were wide open, he decided this _bedtime_ thing just wasn’t meant to be.

They’d landed at the compound into a veritable _buzz_ of activity. There’d been doctors (though thankfully not for him), some law-enforcement people Mr. Stark said he trusted to be discreet, a politician of some sort whom Mr. Stark had forcibly escorted out, and a therapist who asked some _very_ uncomfortable questions. Peter supposed she had to, considering what they’d been planning for Lila, but… He shivered as he climbed out of bed. It was creepy to detail all the ways in which he hadn’t been touched or violated.

In between there’d been food, and a whole bunch of awkward, aborted looks first from Clint and when she arrived, from Laura. Both of them seemed liked they wanted to say something to Peter but didn’t dare. It got so bad that even Lila noticed, and at one point sat close enough she was almost on his lap, and asked him in a low voice if he was in trouble with mom and dad.

He didn’t know whether Nat noticed their weird behavior, but she had come to sit with him after that, keeping him engaged in conversation.

She probably noticed.

A little later he’d disappeared upstairs, sort of wishing he’d gone home, after all. That thought lasted about as long as it took to have it, though; he studied his reflection in the mirror, and was a shocked at how bad he looked. The pain in his eyes had dulled to a minor, incessant stinging, and he sort of assumed the rest of his injuries had followed suit. But the Peter in the mirror looked like he’d been hit by a house.

Which wasn’t really accurate, because the one time a building _had_ dropped on him he’d fared better.

He could probably explain away the redness around his eyes, and while May wouldn’t like it, she’d have understood. But the bruises lining his neck were ugly blue and purple, and disconcertingly descriptive of what had happened. He just knew May would flip out at the bruises, and it’s not like he could hide them from her. He didn’t even own a turtleneck. So he’d gone to bed, hoping they would fade to something more vague than the imprint of a bully’s hand against his throat by the morning.

But he was less worried about May, right now. He was restless, partially because of the Bartons’ awkward-fest, partially because today had been just… weird. He needed to talk to someone. His first thought was Ned, but it was too late and he wouldn’t really understand, anyway. He thought everything Spider-Man related was super cool, but _wow_ and _awesome_ wouldn’t quite cut it, after today.

So he left his room, knowing it was foolish because everyone really must be asleep.

~*~

Tony took advantage of the urgent message Secretary Ross had had to deal with, and buried his head in his hands, exhaling tiredly through them.

Today…

He should have been on a futon on Morgan’s floor, pretending it hurt his back and vaguely worrying about the kid from far away. And here he was at 3 a.m., trying to convince Ross that the intern the mob had targeted was less than an accident and not worthy mentioning in the official report. Pretending not to care shouldn’t be so agonizing, he thought.

Across from him, well outside the visible area of his video call, Natasha sat sideways in the visitor’s chair, her legs across the arm. She was dressed casually, a baggy Spice Girls sweatshirt over faded jeans. Natalie Rushman hadn’t ever relaxed like that, and Natasha Romanoff certainly never dressed like that. He wondered who she was going to be, next.

“Ross will probably give us a day, two tops, but he’s going to find an excuse to visit soon. I hate to have to say this, but you probably shouldn’t be here when he arrives.”

“I know, Tony. I’ll be out before sunrise. I wasn’t even meant to be here, don’t you know this fugitive has plans?”

“I can help you stay,” he said, and knew he sounded hopeful and needy, and he didn’t mind. “Cut a deal with Ross, get a slap on the wrist?”

She dipped her head back, then looked at Tony, and she didn’t really need to say anything. Her resignation was a little sad, but resolute.

“Yeah. Worth a shot.”

His screen flashed, and Tony quickly sat up and schooled his features into tired, slightly irritated indifference. But Ross wasn’t back. It was Friday, who pushed an alert over his call.

Peter was out of his room.

“Duress?”

“Not by any of my pre-defined parameters, boss.”

So just restive. He flicked a wrist at the screen, dimming it considerably. “He’s on hold,” he told Natasha, rising to his feet. “He can’t hear you, but the lenses are here and here,” he pointed. “Maybe steer clear of them. I’m going to make a drink.”

He was just getting glasses out of the cabinets in the kitchen when the kid came in. He almost asked the kid why he was up, but a look at his face changed his mind. He looked like he would share in a moment, prying or no.

“Oh, you’re up, too?” Tony asked, casually, and then turned to blend a drink. When he turned back to the glasses, pitcher in hand, the kid responded.

“Yeah, couldn’t sleep.” He leaned against the wall on the other side of the bar, lifting one foot to rest on the wall behind him. He looked tired, but relaxed.

“Yup. That’ll happen,” Tony said. At least it wasn’t nightmares. “What’s on your mind? I mean, other than the death-adjacent, torturous, blood curling day you’ve had?

“Fruit shake?”

He poured out three glasses, set one aside for Peter, and added some spiced liquor to the others. The kid had frankly earned a real drink too, but Tony wasn’t about to share that habit with him. Not yet, anyway.

“Um, if you’re busy, you can get back to—” The kid pointed tentatively over his shoulder, back to the office area.

Tony just shook his head, and handed a glass to the kid. Peter took it, and tucked his other leg absently under him. Tony bit down a smile. He was effectively sitting on the wall, and didn’t even seem to register how special that was. How special _he_ was.

He gestured for the kid to go ahead.

“Why were Clint and Laura giving me these weird looks all night? Clint was so normal in the jet, but, like, as soon as we landed, he wouldn’t speak to me, or he’d be giving me these looks and pull the kids closer, like I—I don’t know. Weird looks. You know?”

Tony did know, and he hated that the kid noticed, even if it was hard to miss. The Barton kids had used any excuse to be close to Peter, hold his hand (well, the girl, anyway), and ask him about his powers (well, the boy). Tony was about 80% sure Lila had proposed to Peter at one point. But Clint and Laura had been whispering and shooting glances they really should have known weren’t subtle. Tony wasn’t surprised that the kid drew the wrong conclusions. If you’d never have a loved-one saved at a terrible cost, those looks were easy to misinterpret as mistrust.

Tony breathed sharply through his teeth, and pulled out a barstool across from Peter. “They don’t know how to _thank_ you, Pete. That’s why they’re being weird.”

“Thank me? Why do they need to thank me? I mean, I get they’re happy their kids are safe, but I’ve helped lots of people, no one officially _thanks_ me.”

“No one officially thanks _Spider-Man_ ,” Tony said, and he looked at Peter long enough for the kid to look down. The purple, icy juice was sloshing gently, as Peter inhaled deeply.

“But you weren’t Spider-Man today, you were Peter Parker, and that’s just… Jesus.” Just as Peter looked back Tony looked away. He didn’t think he’d be able to say this while looking at the kid. He wasn’t sure he could say it at all, until the words were out. He focused on the floor tiles, instead.

“Kid, you don’t see yourself the way others see you, and that’s usually a good thing. It’s what makes you such a great friendly neighborhood super-hero. But today you weren’t a super-hero. To the Bartons, you’re a kid who took a hell of a beating to keep their own kids safe. And they’re grateful, but they don’t know how to say it without sounding like they’re glad you took half a cannister of pepper-spray to the face, because if you hadn’t been there…”

Tony trailed off. His compartmentalization was beginning to break down, and it wasn’t fair to let that happen in front of the kid. But he was not ready to casually discuss what had happened to Peter—no, what _had been done to_ Peter. Being brave, even cavalier, about it, somehow made it worse. Like he was condoning what happened just because the kid was resilient enough to survive it.

Truth was, he understood the Bartons. He rather thought he hid it better, but he barely slept knowing the kid was out there in his suit, packed with parachutes and homing beacons and heaters, and a phone call away from backup. The thought of him being a ransom note—or worse, a _missed_ ransom-note away from torture on any regular school-day made his chest tighten.

“Things are bad for you, but if you hadn’t been there things would be worse for the Bartons. That’s a rotten position for someone who cares about you to be in.”

The kid tilted his head towards the hall, as though he heard something, but then turned back to Tony.

“I know I helped,” Peter finally said, “but you’d have found them even if Cooper hadn’t called, right?”

Tony shrugged, but it wasn’t carefree or dismissive. It was somehow defenseless. “I don’t know. Maybe.” He took a drink. “I would have paid if you hadn’t told me not to, but would we have found them before they killed Cooper? Probably not. Before they moved Lila to some shipping container to await her new life as some pervert’s se—” Tony cut himself off, and finished his drink in a single gulp. “Anyway, it’s a big _maybe_. I don’t think anyone wants to think about it too closely, if you know what I mean.”

He could see on his face that Peter did. He was old enough to catch the implications of how Lila had been dressed, and Tony’d seen how Matelli had straddled him in that first video. He’d been assured there were no such designs on Peter, but having the kid so close to that situation was disturbing. Infuriating. Helpless.

“And I don’t know if you heard, but the factory was veritable roadmap of criminal activity,” Tony added, now making an effort to lighten his tone. The other thing didn’t bear thinking about, and in any case Peter deserved to know how much good he’d done.

“It led them to secondary and even tertiary locations, where they found more missing kids, and roughly—in technical terms—a fuckton of alien tech.”

Peter allowed himself a small smile. He sat there on the wall, two or three feet off the ground, and nursed his juice, lost in thought for a few moments. When he looked up he was a little curled in on himself, as though unsure of what he was going to say.

“So the Bartons see me as Peter Parker,” he spoke tentatively, as though still teasing the thought apart. “And that makes them uncomfortable, cause I got hurt. I’m pretty sure Nat sees me as Spider-Man, because she’s been pretty chill.” The kid tilted his head again, minutely, and Tony realized belatedly that he must hear Natasha down the hall.

“How do you see me?”

The question hung in the air.

Tony felt himself deflate, and forced himself to maintain his posture. Cause that was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, wasn’t it? He almost said, _as a pain in my ass, kid,_ but stopped himself; that was a Howard response. He was old enough now to see the (potentially) hidden affection there, but he was trying to break the cycle. The kid deserved a real answer.

Which Tony was in no way prepared to give. So he settled for true, even if it fell short of perfectly honest.

“I don’t know. I know that the Peter Parker you show to the world is just a part of you, but it’s hard to isolate the Spider-Man part when you’re in trouble or hurting. So what does that mean? Both? Neither? I just know that you’re my—” Tony stopped himself. He was getting dangerously close to things he couldn’t admit.

“My favorite young adult,” he finished. It was lame enough that he liked it. It has a certain ring to it.

The kid looked down, then back up at Tony. Maybe he heard what Tony hadn’t said.

“I’ll take it,” Peter shrugged, and smiled.

Tony reached behind him for the third glass he’d poured, and raised it towards Peter.

“Anyway, cheers to taking down an elaborate, international child-trafficking ring.”

Peter raised his own glass in tacit agreement to end the previous line of questioning, but before Tony could drink from his Natasha had come into the kitchen.

“Hey, that’s supposed to be mine.” She removed it from his half-raised hand, tipped it in Peter’s direction, and took a sip. Then she frowned.

“You’re just… sitting on the wall? You don’t need the suit to do that?”

Peter pushed off the wall with both legs and dropped to his feet. “Sorry! May always says that that’s unsettling when you’re not used to it. I forget sometimes that people react differently to Spider-Man and to Peter Parker.” He was looking at Tony when he added that last bit, though. 

“Don’t be sorry,” Natasha set her glass down. “I like it.”

She turned to Tony. “I’m heading out. Ross is still on hold, by the way. He’s going to kill you.”

Tony saw the kid’s eyes widen in panic. “Oh, God, was I keeping you?”

Tony made a face. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It’s our special thing, remember?” He pushed up, though, and turned to Natasha.

“You all set? You need anything? I mean, you’re a wanted woman, so I can’t offer you anything—but I’m on a long, official call right now so I can’t _technically_ stop you if you wanted to take something.”

“I’m good. But someone may have stolen your stash of Widow’s Bites, you probably want to look into that.”

Tony smiled, and extended his hand. It, too, was far too lame a gesture to encompass everything he needed to express, which is why it would have to do. “Thank you, Agent Romanoff.”

She shook it with a knowing smile, while Peter looked between them like he was missing some sort of joke. “Anything for family, right?” Natasha said. It wasn’t really a question.

“I wouldn’t really know,” Tony said. He had meant it to be a joke, a little self-deprecating humor, but it sounded sardonic, and bitter. How did the most guarded person he knew bring out utter honesty in him? There was no justice in this world. He made sure his tone was neutral when he asked, “You off to join Cap?”

“It’s not like we ran away together, you know. I don’t know where he is. And it’s not my fault I’m in a family of pigheaded idiots, but maybe I can talk some sense into him. If I can find him, that is.”

“Pärnu,” Friday piped in helpfully, her gentle accent cheerful.

Tony looked up. “Fri? Are you having a stroke?”

“Off the west coast of Estonia. I know where everybody is.”

Tony shot Natasha a helpless look. “There you go. I have got to disentangle her from all those backup servers before she becomes Multivac.” He shot a glance at Peter. “That’s from a really old _book._ ”

“I actually think it was a short story, Mr. Stark.”

Tony rolled his eyes in exaggerated suffering. He hated it that the kid was right.

Natasha laughed, and said to Peter, “Walk me out.”

The kid looked to Tony for permission, and he nodded. “You got your webs?”

Peter raised the sleeves of his sweatshirt, showing the sleek black bracelets around his wrists.

“Good. Come find me when you’re done.

“I’m going to take that call. Godspeed, Romanoff. Keep in touch. Or don’t. Your spy-ways are beyond me. But… Anything for family.”

He clapped Peter on the shoulder as he passed him, instructing Friday to activate the call when he was halfway down the hall. God, Ross was _pissed._ Tony laughed. Angry Ross had nothing on a troubled teenager. _His_ troubled teena—his favorite young adult.

Ross had been right.

Sometimes, keeping things vague was a privilege.

~*~

Peter followed Natasha through the hallway to the elevator, in the opposite direction of where Mr. Stark resumed his call. God, when did the man sleep?

While they waited for the elevator she said, “He’s going to bench you.”

Peter had a feeling this had to do with the conversation she’d overheard, and suddenly wondered if he should have told Mr. Stark that she’d been listening. It didn’t feel wrong at the time—he only knew he was there because he could hear her steady heartbeat move closer from the office—but now he felt very vulnerable knowing she’d heard them. “What?”

“Tony. He’s going to bench you. He trusts you, and he trusts your judgment,” she held the elevator and motioned for him to step inside ahead of her, “but you didn’t see him today, before we knew what we were dealing with. When push really comes to shove, when there’s a genuine question of your safety, he sees you as Peter Parker, not Spider-Man. And he won’t risk Peter Parker getting hurt.”

Peter didn’t think that was true. “Today, I didn’t have the suit, and he risked me getting hurt,” he argued. She probably didn’t know, but Mr. Stark had _given_ him the suit. He trusted him to be Spider-Man.

“Today _you_ risked you getting hurt,” she corrected, “and trusting you was the only way to get you, and the kids, unhurt.”

They stepped out onto the ground floor, where a security guard waved to them. She waved back, and walked toward the doors. “But Tony’s obsessed with this idea that there’s a big threat coming, and I think he’s right. When it arrives, he’s going to try and bench you.” She stopped walking and turned to him, and although Peter didn’t know her very well, at that moment he trusted her completely. She was worried, and he believed her.

“You know I don’t want to see you hurt, either. But I also saw how you carried yourself today.

“Tony’s going to need someone to watch his back, and with the way things are with the Avenger’s right now…” She looked around the Compound lobby, her expression bittersweet and resigned.

“Tony is going to need someone to have his back,” she repeated. “And while I don’t mean you should put yourself in unnecessary danger, I want you to promise me that you’ll have his six, when he tries to make you sit out the fight. He shouldn’t have to fight alone, but I don’t know if we’ll be around to fight with him.”

Peter wanted to argue that Mr. Stark trusted him, and that he trusted Tony, and that he’d follow his orders when the time came. But what Natasha was saying _fit_ , it made sense of a discombobulated puzzle he hadn’t really known was bothering him. She was right. Mr. Stark _would_ try to keep Peter safe, and it _would_ be at the expense of his own safety.

Well, not if Peter could help it.

He rubbed up his arm with his hand, as though his tingling-sense was already warning him of some lurking danger. He nodded.

“Yeah, I’ll have Mr. Stark’s back.”

Nat smiled, and it was warm as sweet and kind, and Peter for a moment couldn’t imagine her as the elegant, deadly fighter she was. “Thank you, Peter.”

She turned to push out of the building, then stopped and turned around. “Why ‘Mr. Stark?’ You’ve only met me and Barton today, and it took just the once to get you to call us _Clint_ and _Nat_.”

“Well, you were pretty intense when you told me to call you Nat,” he joked weakly, but she was saw right through him, and waited.

Peter took a deep breath. He wouldn’t see her again for a while, and she wasn’t exactly going to chat up Mr. Stark… He could be honest. “I—It’s just, I’ve seen Mr. Stark on TV, and on interviews, and all those _ten surprising things you didn’t know about Tony Stark_ stuff, and well, he tells _everyone_ to call him Tony. Like, even people he doesn’t even like or respect. They all like to pretend to be his friend, and… I guess I didn’t want to be like everybody.”

He looked up at her, and she was smiling another beautiful smile. Peter suddenly realized she was so pretty, with her almost-white hair glowing faintly in the moonlight and a look that really seemed to _get it._

She shook her head.

“You’re not everybody,” she said simply, and pushed the door open. That was all the goodbye he got.

In a moment she was gone, her parting words like a hug. They, too, felt true, even if Peter—or Mr. Stark—only ever danced around the realization.

Natasha was right, about everything. Everyone who left was letting Mr. Stark fight alone.

But Peter—Peter wasn’t everybody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew.  
> That was some ride (for me, at least), and I'd like to thank everyone who commented, bookmarked, kudoed, or otherwise expressed any kind of interest in this. 
> 
> A few notes about the story: 
> 
> 1) I tried to keep this canon compliant, which means that Peter and Tony needed to end up more-or-less where they were in their opening positions for IW. That means that they couldn't admit too much of what they're feeling, at least not to one another. 
> 
> 2) This is also why I don't see this expanding in a AU direction, of Clint and his kids moving into the Compound indefinitely, etc. But hey-- if you want to write it, please!! And of course let me know, cause I'm a sucker for those types of AU, even if I don't write them. 
> 
> 3) Thanks to people who commented--and particularly those who mentioned they enjoyed Natasha. She's super fun to write, and I almost cut some of her scenes because I thought I would be the only one who enjoyed them. 
> 
> 4) Finally, hope you enjoyed this! And whether you've commented already or you're stumbling onto this years down the line, I'm always very happy to hear your thoughts, what worked (or didn't work) for you.


End file.
